


Between the Folds of Submission

by destimushi



Series: The Echoes of Submission [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biologically Necessary Submission, DCBB, Dcbb 2017, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge, Detective Castiel, Dom Dean, Dom/sub, Facials, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hand Feeding, Kidnapping, Kneeling, M/M, Origami, Safeword Use, Serial killer case, Spanking, Sub Castiel, Subspace, Suspense, biologically necessary domination, dom/sub biology, multiple corpses, some small amount of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 02:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 45,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12245118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destimushi/pseuds/destimushi
Summary: Castiel Novak, the city’s only Submissive homicide detective, balances navigating a career believed to be a Dominant’s domain and keeping his physical needs in check. When another team drops the ball and a series of gruesome murders lands in Castiel’s lap, it’s simply another day on the job.Only this isn’t like any case Castiel has ever worked. Collecting clues and running leads gets him nowhere, until the day he receives a phone call from Dean Winchester, Editor-in-Chief of the popular magazine Cruisin’ Classics. It’s a phone call that has the power to blow the case wide open.Castiel races against the clock as the killer ups the ante, but Dean—rich, drop-dead gorgeous, and a famously unconventional Dominant to boot—proves to be a distraction he can’t afford. As the danger grows, Castiel finds himself torn between upholding his beliefs and giving in to his desires. Can he resist his urges long enough to find the killer, or will his biology consume him?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally here! DCBB 2017 posting! It's been such a crazy journey from signing up to posting. 
> 
> I got to work with the amazing and talented [purzelndesbaeumchen](http://purzelndesbaeumchen.tumblr.com/) and she did some lovely paintings for this story! Please show her some love on [Tumblr](http://purzelndesbaeumchen.tumblr.com/) and check out the drawings embedded in the story and [HERE](http://purzelndesbaeumchen.tumblr.com/post/165960459488/my-contribution-to-the-deancas-big-bang-2017-i).
> 
> As always, a big thanks to my friend and beta [JhanaMay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/pseuds/JhanaMay) for being with me since the very start and taking this piece to the next level. She's also participating in the DCBB this year. Her story is amazing! 
> 
> A big thanks to everyone in the various Discord chats that have helped me along the way with alpha reading, dialogue fixing, and cheerleading when I wanted to throw this off a cliff. They're all amazing writers with their own amazing DCBBs coming out soon, please show them some love when the time comes! [fanforfanatic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanforfanatic), [la_rubinita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_rubinita), [Halzbarry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/halzbarry), [Casloveshisfreckles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Casloveshisfreckles), [Areiton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/areiton), [remmyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme), [jad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jad), and last but not least, [sharkfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitforspring/pseuds/sharkfish). 
> 
> Thanks to the mods for organizing this event, and thanks to everyone who gives this story a bit of their time and patience. I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

 

 

 

It starts with an itch beneath his skin. A tingling under his fingernails, spreading until he’s aching. Castiel balls his fists and shoves them into his pockets, but there’s nowhere to hide. His lungs hurt, each breath agonizing, swimming upstream against torrential rapids. A fuzzy halo of light surrounds his vision, too bright, too saturated, and his skin’s too tight.  
  
His knees yearn to strike the floor; anxious wrists crave cool leather. The crack of palm against tender flesh, cleansing pain giving way to clarity. Balance. Equilibrium. Realignment born of submission.  
  
It’s been three days since he last went under—a rushed session—and Castiel craves the weighted gaze of dominance, but it’ll have to wait.  
  
He squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath, holding it until his chest threatens to burst, and empties his lungs in a slow stream of air. When he opens his eyes again, the glowing ring of bright light disappears from his vision, and he can breathe a little easier. He squares his shoulders, straightens his tie, and turns down the hall to conference room C.  
  
Zar waves as Castiel walks through the door, but his smile wavers and his blue-grey eyes narrow when Castiel only nods in greeting. “Are you all right?”  
  
“Probably itching to get on his knees,” a familiar voice calls from the back of the room.  
  
Castiel clenches his jaw as the start of a headache pounds behind his eyes. “Detective Marks.”  
  
“Don’t be so cold, Castiel, you can still call me Luc even if you’re a _sub_ —”  
  
“Bugger off,” Zar says, raising his middle finger to the man sitting with his feet kicked up on the edge of the oval table, hands cradling the back of his head. “Jealousy is a good look on you—“  
  
“Fuck you, Balthazar.” Luc’s tone is light, but his smug smile turns icy and his eyes harden into hateful little pebbles.  
  
“—Just because Detective Novak made Homicide and you didn’t…”  
  
Castiel slips into a chair and stares out the window, and the sound of bickering fades as the itch returns, demanding and all consuming. When he received the meeting invite, he didn’t expect to see Luc there, and if he’d known—well, he still would have come. Castiel can’t allow personal issues to impede his job, not when he’s worked so hard to get where he is.  
  
But Christ, if he doesn’t go under soon, he’s going to do or say something he’ll regret later.

The door swings shut with a loud click—Castiel jumps and twists in his chair—and Bobby Singer walks across the room wearing a ratty old baseball hat. He drops a stack of files on the table before taking a seat at the head of the oval table.  
  
“Ladies.”  
  
“Singer,” Luc replies.  
  
“Bobby.” Zar gives Luc one last smug smile, but the mockery is gone from his voice.   

  
“That’s Staff Sergeant Singer to the both of yeh.” Singer turns to Castiel, a frown creasing his brows. “Feeling okay, Novak?”  
  
“Yes, I’m fine, sir.” Castiel cringes as soon as the word slip out, and Luc snorts behind him.  
  
“Whatever it is, shake it off.” Singer grabs the pile of files and slides three of them across the table. Castiel reaches for the rigid folder, thankful for something to grab onto to still the tremors in his hands. “We got a serial killer on our hands, and it’s getting worse by the minute.”  
  
Castiel’s used to crime scene photos—he’s certainly seen enough dead bodies—but these photographs make his stomach clench, and the contents of his lunch threaten to reappear. Beside him, Zar’s breath hitches, and Luc has gone quiet.  
  
There are seven photographs, each attached to a sheet of paper crowded with words. Words that spell out a name, a date of birth, a life reduced to nothing but a grisly photo and black ink. Castiel forces himself to look at each one, burning each face into his memory as anger rises like bile in his throat. “There are seven victims; why hasn’t anyone else heard about this?”  
  
“RCMP was on it,” Singer says and busies himself with his own file, avoiding Castiel’s pointed stare. “Didn’t want us mucking it up.”  
  
“So, now they’ve mucked it up and want to pawn it off to be our mess?” Castiel shouldn’t talk to the staff sergeant like this, a Dominant to boot, but the pounding behind his eyes has spread to his temples, and he’s too pissed and strung out to care.  
  
Singer is quiet, and the moment stretches a while longer before he clears his throat and says, “They’re saying they need fresh eyes.”  
  
“Damn Mounties drop the ball, dump it on us, and meanwhile people are still dying.” Castiel grips the file so hard his fingers ache. “We should’ve been on this. Seven people, Singer. Seven.”  
  
“And more if we don’t move fast.” Singer sighs and closes his file. “I’m giving it to you and Milton. Don’t make me look like more of an asshole than I already do.”  
  
“What’s Luc doing here?” Zar shoots a glance down the conference table, and Castiel can’t help the twitch of his lips when Zar scrunches his nose like something smells.  
  
“He’s—“  
  
“I’ve been trying to find a lead on a case for some time now,” Luc cuts in. “We found a pill at one of the crime scenes. Turns out he’s part of your serial party.” He taps the edge of a photograph.  
  
“Wait, why does this wanker know about these murders and we don’t?” Zar snaps his glare back to Singer.  
  
Luc shouts something, and the two continue right where they left off. Castiel’s only half listening as the situation slowly registers. He’s got a deteriorating serial killer and a mess of a case to sort through, and now he’s stuck working with the Drug Unit. Worse, he’s stuck with Luc. Castiel closes his eyes, almost crawling out of his skin. When he opens them again Singer’s steady gaze pins him to his chair.  
  
“Ya need to take the rest of the day?”  
  
“No, I’m fine,” Castiel grits and digs his nails into his palms hidden beneath the table. “Is there a signature?”  
  
“Origami, real fancy looking, left at every crime scene.” Singer closes his folder and pushes to his feet. “There’s a profile for the killer in the file. And Novak?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Go home, take a nap. You look like shit.” Singer fixes his hat and pulls the bill lower before heading out the door.  
  
Castiel feels like shit, and the crime scene photos did nothing to help the queasiness threatening to drown him. Maybe he will go home after he visits all the crime scenes.    
  
“You should listen to the old man,” Luc says, and the proximity of his voice startles Castiel. “Was quite the dom in his prime. I hear he’s still got a mean swing in that right arm, maybe you can ask him—” Luc tucks his folder under his left arm and looks down at Zar, disdain written all over his face. “—to beat some sense into you.” Without a backward glance, Luc saunters out of the room.  
  
“Fuck him,” Zar mutters and lays a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “He’s just bitter he’s stuck working in the Drug Unit and you made it into Homicide.”  
  
“Yeah.” Castiel smiles, and the twitch of the corners of his lips exhausts him.  
  
“You need me to stay over tonight?” Zar gives Castiel’s shoulder one final squeeze before tucking the scattered pieces of his file back into the folder. “I can pack a bag.”  
  
“Yeah, Zar, that’d be great.” Castiel sighs, and the anticipation of finally going under soothes the frayed edges of his nerves.  

***  
  
Castiel swallows the last bite of his dinner and chases it with a swig of beer. He shouldn’t be drinking after nothing but peanut butter on toast, but the photographs taped to the whiteboard in his dining room are a lot to take. Since Balthazar isn’t coming over to help him take the edge off for another couple of hours, beer wins. He kneads the bridge of his nose, and the warmth of the alcohol chases away the chill in his chest.  
  
Seven smiling faces stare at him from a row of neatly organized photographs. Three women, four men, and none connected by anything other than gruesome deaths and beautiful origami pieces. Castiel studies the shot of each elaborate paper statue taped below the photos of the victims. He tries to find a connection, a meaning, anything to tie them together, but nothing jumps out at him.

Nothing in Ethel Wilhelm’s file screams scorpion, and nothing in Sousuke Tanaka’s life at a glance has anything to do with dragons. Castiel refuses to acknowledge the ‘Asian so dragon?’ scrawled at the bottom of Tanaka’s file.     
  
Digging into seven people’s lives is hard enough. Add in everyone’s obsession with social media and it becomes impossible to know everything, but Castiel is nothing if not tenacious. If the RCMP couldn’t find any links between these victims, they weren’t looking hard enough in the right places. Castiel takes another large swig of his beer, turns his attention back to his laptop, and logs into Steven Doyle’s email.  
  
Sifting through hundreds of emails about construction sites and contract rates is mind-numbing, but peppered throughout the mundane are conversations about hand-crafted leather collars and degrading exchanges with people who are obviously Submissives. Doyle was a Dominant, and not a great one if he contacted so many new subs so frequently. Castiel makes a note and continues to open email after email. He loses track of time, and the mindless nature of his work pulls him under just a touch, easing the persistent itch beneath his skin even alcohol can’t reach.  
  
His phone chimes, and Castiel snaps out of his trance with a soft curse. He fumbles through his pockets before finding the phone beneath a pile of paperwork. A preview of a text from Zar flashes on the screen, and Castiel dreads he’s canceling last minute.

 _On my way. Forensics are processing the crime scene. Nothing we can_ _do_ _till tomorrow._

 _Oh, and turn on_ _the TV_ _,_ _channel_ _25\. You_ _’re not going to_ _like this._  
  
Castiel gets up from the dining room table and hurries into the living room. The TV flickers on with a splash of colour, and when Castiel flips to channel twenty-five, his stomach sinks.  
  
“—Latest victim is Elle Smith, a receptionist working at Manner & Associates, and new information has revealed a connection between the now seven unsolved murders.” The news anchor—a pretty brunette wearing way too much lipstick—smiles at him through the screen. “The Origami Killer is a very fitting name, since…”  
  
He jabs the power button with a vengeance and tosses the remote onto the couch. How the hell did the media get their hands on this? Does the whole damn world know more about his case than he does? This was turning into a disaster and Castiel’s been on the case for less than twenty-four hours. Everyone and their dog will want an update hourly, and the mayor is already breathing down Singer’s neck (which is a breath of hot air down Castiel’s neck) to wrap this up.  
  
A knock at the front door breaks through Castiel’s spiral of rage. He stomps down the short hallway and yanks it open. Zar, a well-worn leather overnight bag in one hand, takes a step back and makes a face. “Bloody hell, is it safe for me to come in?”  
  
Castiel glares but says nothing and storms back down the hall. If he didn’t need Zar so much right now, wasn’t already bursting at the seams, he’d send the man away. He can’t afford to waste a whole night, but the thought of making due with a short session brings back the tremors in his hands, and Castiel’s desperate; he needs to to get out of his head. One night, he will spare himself this one night, and—  
  
Soft lips brush against his, gentle, undemanding, and it halts all the gears grinding in Castiel’s head. Large hands cradle his face, thumbs brushing against the apples of his cheeks as the tip of a tongue flicks along the seam of his mouth. Castiel’s eyes slip shut—lids suddenly too heavy—and he’s shrouded in fuzzy darkness. He opens his mouth, presses into the kiss, and Zar licks up Castiel’s pathetic little moans with earnest sweeps of his tongue.  
  
They kiss like this—a gentle game of tag with lips and tongues—until Castiel begins to slip, his hands twisting knots in the front of Zar’s shirt, his body softening until he’s molded against the hard planes of Zar’s body. When Zar pulls back, Castiel’s shaking, and a warm tingling replaces the itch beneath his skin.  
  
“You still good for tonight?” Zar’s voice is a feather-light caress against Castiel’s skin.  
  
“God, yes. I need…I—“  
  
“Shh, I have you.” Zar plants a playful kiss at the corner of Castiel’s mouth before taking Castiel’s hand and pulling him toward the bedroom. “I’ll take care of you.”  
  
“Thanks, Zar.” Castiel clings to the warmth of Zar’s grip and follows. He’s made to obey, yearns for the quiet of submission, and his body is so ready to be free it’s vibrating.  
  
“Hey, that’s what partners are for, right?” Zar pulls Castiel into the bedroom, and everything is bathed in silvery moonlight. “Now, present.”  

***  
  
Sunlight filters through the cracks between the blinds as dust motes prance in each buttery beam. Castiel blinks and rubs his eyes, his body unfurling into wakefulness as his mind surfaces from slumber. Sensation blooms across his back and thighs when he stretches, and Castiel swallows his soft moans as his eyes flutter shut, basking in the delicious dull aches.  
  
He had begged for the paddle, pleaded until Zar caved and painted his backside pink and purple, and Castiel was at peace. He gropes around the nightstand for his phone and squints at the screen. It’s still early, he’s had maybe four hours of sleep, but Castiel hasn’t felt this energetic in weeks. The mattress dips as he swings his legs to the side of the bed and pushes to his feet with a wince. Sitting down will be interesting for the next few days, but the pain’s a good reminder of the clarity from last night. It’ll keep him level for a little while.  
  
It has taken Castiel a long time to accept this part of his physiology, and even longer still to find a partner who’s willing to keep him grounded. Castiel hobbles down the hall toward the bathroom, stopping along the way to poke his head into the guest bedroom where Zar is still asleep, his snores soft and even. Castiel smiles, and a fresh wave of gratitude washes over him. Too bad Zar isn’t a Dominant.  
  
Then again, if Zar was a dom, Castiel would have never allowed him into his bed.  
  
Castiel runs the shower and studies himself in the mirror, waiting for the water to heat. It never ceases to amaze him how different he looks after a session. The shadows beneath his eyes are gone, the lines around his mouth less saturated, and even the edges of his jaw seem softer. He’s never been with a Dominant, doesn’t know what it would be like to be put under by one, but he’s had lots of stand-in doms, and none could help Castiel go under like Zar can.  
  
The rest of the morning passes with ease, and Castiel has a spring in his step as he moves about getting ready for work. He cooks breakfast—eggs and bacon and pancakes—and keeps a plate warming in the oven for Zar with a note scribbled on a post-it stuck to the door. When he grabs his keys and pulls the door shut behind him, it’s ten to seven and Zar’s still in bed.      
  
The office is muted when he gets in. Castiel waves at the overnight front reception and drops off a box of Tim Horton doughnuts in the lunchroom. With his second breakfast of boston cream and coffee, Castiel drops into his chair and cracks open his laptop. There’s still so much more digging to do and not enough hours in a day to do it.  
  
The morning wears on, and the office bustles into life as night shift hands off to the morning crew. Castiel is buried nose deep in Jordan Heung’s Facebook feed when the phone on his desk rings.  
  
“Novak.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and leans back into his chair, half listening to the voice on the phone while still processing just how much people share their personal lives on social media. Have they never heard of identity theft?  
  
“There’s a Dean Winchester on line one asking for the lead detective on the Origami Killer case—“  
  
“Jesus Christ, is that what we’re calling him now?”  
  
“—and he says he’s got some crucial information.”  
  
“All right, put him through.” The name pulls at the edges of Castiel’s memories, but he can’t quite place it. Instead, Castiel lifts his coffee cup to his lips and swallows the last of the cold swill before pushing the flashing button on his phone. “This is Detective Novak.”  
  
“Detective.” The voice on the line is deep and smooth with an unmistakable ring of dominance, and Castiel sits a little straighter in his chair. “I saw the news yesterday about this Origami Killer.”  
  
“We’re not really calling him that,” Castiel cuts in, and he can’t find it in himself to keep the annoyance out of his voice.  
  
There’s a moment of silence. Castiel shifts in his chair, and the icy weight of _I did something wrong_ settles around the back of his neck. He frowns and moves the receiver from one ear to the other before Dean Winchester continues. “On the news they showed pictures of the origami left at the crime scenes. I’ve been getting the same ones on my desk for the past five months.”  
  
The noise of the office fades, and the sudden hush makes the roar of blood in his ears that much louder. “That can’t be a coincidence.”  
  
“No, I didn’t think so”—Winchester clears his throat—“and I got another one yesterday.”  
  
Castiel grabs a pen and fishes around his drawer for a notepad. “I’ll need to come by and take a look at those.”  
  
“I’m free anytime after one.”  
  
“Great, I’ll see you then.” He takes down the address and thanks the man again before the line goes dead. Castiel stares at the receiver in his hand and suppresses a shudder. What on earth was that? Where has he heard the name Winchester before? Castiel shakes his head and hangs up with more force than necessary. None of that matters, not when a fresh lead to this otherwise stagnant case drops in his lap.  
  
Castiel checks the time and dials Zar.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Driving in downtown Vancouver is a nightmare. Obeying traffic laws is optional, and pedestrians dart into traffic without even a cursory glance. Castiel’s lungs deflate as he pulls into the underground parking and takes a moment to calm his nerves before getting out of the car. He pays for parking and cringes at the bill for two measly hours.

The elevator spits him out on the paved path along the sea wall. Seagulls circle low overhead; their shrill cries drown out the hubbub of the city. Snow-capped mountains lie in the distance like slumbering giants, and the ocean sparkles to his left beneath warm sunbeams.

A breeze brushes against him, playful tendrils tussle his hair, and when Castiel takes a deep breath, the fresh taste of the sea bursts on his tongue. He’s in awe of the beauty of it all, stretching in either direction as far as the eye can see, and Castiel’s reminded just how small and insignificant he is in the presence of such magnificence. He loves his city, and the fierce urge to protect her with his last breath still burns within him.

The hub of Vancouver is never without tourists, many leaning against the metal railings as they take selfies against the calm ocean behind them. An Asian family flags Castiel down to take a picture of their whole clan in front of a cruise ship, and thanks him with repeated handshakes and bows once he’s snapped numerous pictures on multiple cell phones. The short walk to Dean Winchester’s office takes twice as long when two more families and a couple from Europe ask him to play photographer.

Castiel’s got a bounce in his step when he walks through the glass doors, and when the elevator pings open, he pushes the button for the top floor. The metal doors open to a clean reception area with lush carpets. Brass block letters spell _Cruisin’_ _Classics_ on the wall behind the front desk, and a lovely blonde woman greets Castiel with a wide smile.

“May I help you, sir?” Her voice is soft, and when she looks up, Castiel glimpses a thin strip of maroon leather around her throat. It’s a simple, inconspicuous piece, but he knows a Submissive’s collar when he sees one.

“I have an appointment with Dean Winchester,” Castiel says, his smile strained. He doesn’t understand why any Submissive would want to wear a collar at work. Don’t they put up with enough bullshit from traditionalists without giving them more power?

“Ah, Mr. Novak?”

“Detective.”

“I’m sorry, Detective Novak. Please have a seat,” she says and points at the row of leather seats to the left of the reception desk. “Someone will be along to take you to Mr. Winchester shortly.”

“No need.” A slim young man jogs toward him, his right hand extended. “I’m Garth, Mr. Winchester’s personal assistant.” He’s only a little taller than Castiel, but his thin frame makes him seem extra willowy.

“Detective Castiel Novak,” Castiel replies and grips Garth’s hand. The handshake is brief but firm, and Castiel warms up to Garth’s open smile.

“So, you’re the famous Castiel Novak, huh?” Garth says over his shoulder as he leads Castiel down the hall.

“Or infamous, depending on where you stand.”

“Oh, definitely famous in my books.” Garth flashes him another toothy smile, and Castiel catches himself smiling back. “I’m all for equality regardless of your orientation. And it’s not like subs can’t be detectives; I mean, look at you—”

Castiel opens his mouth, but his words don’t have a chance.

“—but it must be hard working with all them Dominants. Real brutes, some of them. I mean, I wouldn’t wanna, and I’m not even anything.” Garth leads him past three offices with glass walls before stopping in front of the biggest one at the end of the hall. A tall man in a bespoke suit paces the spacious room, one hand on his hip while the other scrubs down his face. Another man sits in the smaller leather chair in front of the large desk, his expensive looking cream shirt a stark contrast to his chocolate skin. Their lips move, and occasionally Castiel catches the ring of a raised voice even through the sound dampening glass.    

Castiel studies the man pacing the room, gears grinding, and he remembers where he’s heard the name Dean Winchester before.

“Anywho, just, I’m a big fan, and um, keep up the good work.” Garth knocks on the glass door. The man in the chair turns and gives Castiel a dirty look. He heaves out of the chair, pats Winchester on the shoulder, and smirks as he throws the office door open.

“—we’ll finish this later, Gordon,” Winchester calls out, his voice—a deep, smooth baritone—is angry and commanding.

“Yes, yes, whatever you say, Mr. Winchester.” Gordon saunters down the hall and doesn’t spare Castiel another glance.  

Castiel watches Winchester as the door swings shut, giving him a moment to collect himself. Dean Winchester is as imposing in person as he is on the cover of _D/S_ _Weekly_ _,_ maybe more so. His shoulders are broader than Castiel imagined, and the fitted trousers show off his muscular thighs and the slight bow of his legs. He’s staring, but he allows himself that indulgence while Dean’s back is turned.

Winchester picks up a cell phone and brings it to his ear. The simple movement is smooth and confident; a declaration of his Dominant nature. Castiel eases into the office and takes a deep breath as he resists the urge to drop his gaze. They’re equals. He’s here on business, and this is no time to get distracted. Yet it’s difficult to remember that when Winchester chucks his phone on the desk and turns that piercing gaze on Castiel, bathing him in a wash of brilliant green.

“You must be Detective Novak. Dean Winchester.” Winchester extends his right hand, and Castiel hesitates before reaching out. The pads of Winchester’s fingers are calloused, his grip strong and scorching. Castiel swallows and forces himself to pull his hand back slowly.

“Mr. Winchester—”

“Call me Dean.” Winchester—Dean—smiles, and Castiel resists getting lost in those dimples.

“Dean.” He tests the name on his tongue and likes the easy roll of the single syllable. “So, you’ve been finding origami on your desk for the past five months?”

“No small talk?” Dean leans a hip against his desk, the corner of his lip curving into a smile. “Anyway, please, have a seat, and we’ll get down to business.”

Castiel flips open his notebook and frowns as he lowers himself into the plush leather chair in front of the desk, his knees inches away from Dean’s thigh. “Have you received anything else apart from the origami?”

“No.”

“Any random calls that hang up after you answer?”

“No.”

“Notice anyone new hanging around?”

“No.”

“Do you know who’s been leaving them on your desk?”

“Uh, no, or I’d’ve told you.” Dean leans forward and slides his hips onto the table, his pants crease and stretch across his crotch and thighs.

Castiel scribbles _no_ extra hard and takes a deep breath. “Um, are there any security cameras?”

“I watched the footage as soon as I saw the news,” Dean says and leans his elbows against his thighs, his chin resting on steepled fingers. “Whoever it is knows where they’re set up.”

“Well, I’d like to see them—“

“You've really never been with a Dominant before?” Dean cuts in, and his bright green eyes flash with mischief.

Castiel blinks, his jaw clenching as he takes a few breaths before answering. “I don’t see how—“

“Just answer the question.” Dean’s voice drops, so low and smooth it’s like silk against Castiel’s skin, and he’s responding to the command as much as he is to the question when he says, “No, I haven’t.”

Dean’s eyes widen, sunlight bouncing off the flecks of gold in his eyes, and Castiel stares, mesmerized. “But the VPD must be crawling with doms.”

Castiel blinks, breaking free of the bewitching fire in Dean’s eyes, and rage bubbles to the surface, threatening to break through. He swallows, his throat scratchy, and grips his pen until his knuckles are bleach white. “That’s none of your business, and I’d appreciate it if you stopped trying to intimidate me.”

“Okay, sorry.” Dean puts up both hands, palms open and facing Castiel, and the apology in his smile seems genuine. “That was an asshole thing to do.”

“Yes, it was. Guess I should have expected it.” Castiel should be professional, should check his feelings at the door when he’s on the clock. It’s not the first time a Dominant has tried to take advantage of him, but there’s just something about Dean that rubs him the wrong way. Maybe it’s that stupid article _D/S_ _Weekly_ did on Dean, or, if Castiel’s being honest with himself, it’s something a lot more personal.

“Oh?” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up and Castiel can’t decide if Dean’s amused or surprised or a little pissed off.  

“I read the article.”

“Okay, so you know I’m unconventional. Doesn’t mean you know me personally.”

“I don’t know what being ‘unconventional’ has to do with it, and I really don’t care.” Castiel meets Dean’s gaze even though the pit of his stomach is dropping further with each passing second. “We have a killer on the loose, and you have possible evidence, so let me do my job, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“I read about you too, you know.” Dean shrugs and leans back; his arms stretch out behind him as his hands take his weight. The suit jacket falls open, and the silk of his shirt strains around the buttons in soft creases. Dean’s clothes are hiding well toned arms and a broad chest sporting a peculiar tattoo. Castiel might have paid more attention to the photographs attached to that article than he cares to admit. “First Submissive to ever make homicide detective. Very impressive.”  

“Good, then you know my job is important to me, and I’d like to do it now, _please_.” Castiel breathes a small sigh of relief, thankful his voice doesn’t betray the flutter in his chest. Dean has read about him, knows whatever little of his life he revealed to the magazine for the story on Submissives in the work force. It was a small article, headline didn’t even make it onto the cover, and yet Dean remembers it.

Dean opens his mouth but Castiel cuts him off. Maybe it’s not the best idea to alienate the only lead he’s got, but the flash of anger on Dean’s face is worth it. “When do you usually find the origami?”

Dean stares down at him, eyes narrowing. Castiel rolls his shoulders and sits up straighter. “Monday mornings,” Dean says, and the change in his voice sends a shiver down Castiel’s spine.

“Did you try to find out who left them?”

“At first, but no one fessed up, and I didn’t think much of it.” Dean shrugs. “Figured it was maybe a secret admirer or something.”

“You get a lot of those?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you still have them?”

“What, the origami? Yeah.” Dean hops off his desk and walks over to the bookshelf on the other side of the office. He comes back with a black box and pulls the lid off before placing it in Castiel’s lap. “It’s all there.”

“Why’d you keep them?” Castiel looks at each figure: the scorpion, the bull rider, the wolf, the bouquet, the dragon, the swan, and the peacock. They’re all there, identical to the ones in the crime scene photos.

“They’re pretty,” Dean replies, voice soft. “And I like pretty things.”

Castiel looks up sharply. Dean’s looking at him, _through_ him, and the tone of his voice is anything but subtle; it sets Castiel’s heart racing and his stomach twisting into knots. Dean holds his gaze—tension brewing between them like a deadly storm—as he reaches behind his desk, and the rasp of a drawer opening and closing shatters the brittle silence around them. “There’s one more; got this yesterday.”

Dean places a small origami camera at the edge of the table in front of Castiel. It’s as ornate as the rest of them. Castiel looks up at Dean. “Yesterday?”

“I—wait.” Dean blinks as realization dawns on him. “Wait wait wait, does this mean—”

“Maybe. We haven’t—” Beethoven’s Symphony Number Seven drifts from Castiel’s back pocket and they both startle.

“That’s your ringtone?” Dean smirks.

Castiel doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he pulls out his phone and checks the screen. It’s from Zar. “I need to take this.” Dean makes a sweeping gesture with his hand before crossing his arms, and Castiel gets up and walks to the far side of the ridiculously enormous office. “Novak.”

“Cassie, you’re not going to like this.”

“There’s another body.”

“Wait, how did you know?”

“Winchester.” Castiel glances through his notes before snapping the notebook closed and tucking it back into the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ll explain when I see you. Text me the address.”

“Will do.”

Castiel's thumb is hovering over the disconnect button when Zar’s voice filters through. “What is he like?”

“Like a dom.” Castiel hangs up and rolls his eyes so hard he’s sure he pulled something. When he turns around, Dean’s watching him, his gaze bright and piercing, and it strips Castiel bare.

“That sounded important.”

“Yes, I have to go.” Castiel resists the urge to step back. Instead, he closes the distance between them and thrusts out his right hand. “I’d like to take these as evidence.”

“Didn’t think I had a choice.” Dean takes his hand, grip relaxed, and flashes Castiel a wide smile.

“Thanks for all your help.” Castiel puts the lid back on the box before tucking it under his arm.

“Is it another body?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.” Castiel fishes his card from his wallet and hands it to Dean. “If you remember anything else, or if you get anymore of these”—he shakes the box—“let me know immediately.”

Dean takes the card and flips it over, fingers stroking the raised ink on thick paper as he reads it, and when he looks up, Castiel’s breath catches. He fixes his jacket, nods once at Dean, and leaves the office feeling like he just handed Dean the end of his leash instead of a simple business card.

***

“Cassie, over here!” Zar waves as Castiel pulls up to the curb. He looks up and down the street, thankful that uniforms have it closed off. There will be nosy neighbours, and someone is always too damn eager to talk to the press for his fifteen minutes of fame. The forensic team is piling out of the van and heading into the aged apartment building as a man that looks to be in his late 40s holds the door. He must be the building manager.

“Not the kind of place I expected,” Castiel says as he stops by Zar’s side, one hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the dying sun as he scans the side of the building.

“It never is.” Zar huffs out a sigh. “C’mon, let's get this over with.”

Castiel could never get used to the sickly sweet and pungent scent of blood. They do a cursory sweep of the tiny one-bedroom, holstering their weapons when the place comes up clear. He leaves the technicians to do their jobs, collecting anything and everything for evidence so he and Zar can comb through it later, and doubles back into the bedroom where the naked body of a young woman is tied spread eagle and face down on the bed. Her back is a bloody mess of flayed skin and broken welts, and Castiel hopes for her sake she was dead before the deep gouges were cut into her.

“Is that a real cat?” Zar points to the cat-o’-nine-tail laying by the foot of the bed. It’s old school, not like the flimsy knock-offs they sell in adult stores, and each knotted thong is covered in blood. Castiel steps closer and his stomach heaves. Seems like today was a good day to miss lunch.

“Looks like it,” Castiel calls over his shoulder and walks around the bed to study the body. He’s no expert, and will need the coroner to give him the specifics, but Castiel’s seen his fair share of bodies. This woman was subjected to immense torture before she was killed. Beside her head, placed delicately on the pillow, is a small folded camera. It’s identical to the one he saw earlier. “The M.O fits: passionate, messy, origami left at the scene, and Winchester got one just like it on his desk yesterday morning. This is our guy.”

“Or gal,” Zar says and walks to the other side of the bed. “The profiler thinks it’s a woman. Crimes of passion and all that.”

Castiel likes making his own conclusions—after all it’s his job to connect his own dots—but the profiler’s file on the perp is meticulous and detailed. Castiel has a hard time disputing the conclusion that the killer might be female. Every killing has been gruesome and haphazard, as if she couldn’t decide whether she actually wanted to kill her victims. The only thing that’s consistent is the origami, but it doesn’t feel like a signature. Castiel can’t quite put his finger on why.

The apartment isn’t big, but the crime scene is gigantic in that every last thing must be checked and filed away. Castiel sighs and pulls out a pair of latex gloves. Zar does the same thing before putting down a pile of evidence bags on the dresser.

It’s going to be a long night.

***

Krissy Chambers. Freelance photographer. Twenty-four years old.

Castiel leans back in his chair and reaches for his coffee mug. When he finds it empty, he slams the ceramic on his desk and closes his eyes. Twenty-four years old, not even old enough to have really lived, and now she will never fall asleep to the sound of her lover’s snores or hear the laughter of her future children. Another life stolen before its time, and this one is on Castiel.

His laptop monitor glows ominous and bright, and the clock hanging by the far wall of the station marches on, oblivious and impartial to the world around it. It’s two in the morning, and everyone other than reception is out on patrol. The station’s eerie silence is interrupted only by Castiel’s frustrated sighs as he struggles to find a connection between all his victims.

Krissy Chambers makes eight. There has to be something connecting these victims, something the RCMP—and now Castiel—is missing. And the killings are happening closer together.

A door thuds closed, the click of the lock echoing through the silent office space. Castiel freezes, every muscle coiled tight as he reaches for his gun. He sits up straight, his head turning this way and that as he strains to pick up any sound. A hand lands on his shoulder, and Castiel jumps as he spins around in his chair, his gun drawn and pointed right into Luc’s face.

“Wow, Castiel, nice to see you too,” Luc says as he backs away, both hands held up in front of him.

“What the fuck, Luc.” Castiel lowers the gun and relaxes, but only for a second before his guard goes right back up. Sure, Luc isn’t some deranged serial killer, but he’s still Luc.

“Burning the midnight oil, I see.” Luc peers over Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel slams his laptop shut and shoves his papers into the folder in haste.

“What do you want?” It’s late, he’s irritable, and Luc is the last person Castiel wants to deal with right now.

“Just wanted to check in on you. See how the case is going.” Luc turns his gaze back on Castiel, and the malicious glint dancing in his eyes turns them into glowing lanterns. “I hear you went to see Dean Winchester today.”

“So? He’s a lead.”

“Oh, Castiel.” Luc tsks, and the corners of his lips twitch. “I’m sure he’s more than just that. He’s everyone’s favourite dom. Caring, compassionate, and a hell of a good lay, apparently.”

“Good, so you can read, too. Are we finished?” Castiel grits, his fingers curling back around the grip of his gun.

Luc leans in close, way too close, until their noses are a hair’s breadth apart and Castiel’s glad he’s already sitting. For all his shortcomings, Luc is still a Dominant, and he’s not afraid to use that against Castiel every chance he gets. He curls fingers into the front of Castiel’s shirt. “I bet it must’ve taken everything you had to not fall at his feet. Beg him to put you back in your place and fuck you ’til you forget your own name.” Luc’s breath is warm and moist, and the hint of peppermint masking the sour scent of coffee overwhelms Castiel’s senses.

“Get the hell away from me.” The barrel of Castiel’s gun presses into Luc’s chest; the click of the safety echoes in the small space between them.

Luc glances at the gun then back at Castiel. In the dome of dim lamp light, his eyes seem to glow red. “You’re not going to pull that trigger.”

“No, but I will go to Singer if you don’t back the fuck off.” Castiel looks into the pit of Luc’s eyes and sees himself there, and he’s glad he looks a lot calmer than he feels.

The clock continues to tic-toc its way into the wee hours of the morning, each click of the second hand counting down to the moment when Castiel contemplates actually pulling the trigger. He could claim self defence, and with the evidence he’s got against Luc, he could probably get away with it too.

It’s a nice thought, but Castiel can’t afford that kind of publicity. So he waits and presses the gun into Luc’s chest hard enough he hopes it bruises.

“You know Balthazar can never truly satisfy you,” Luc growls and pulls back, smoothing out the crumpled front of Castiel’s shirt before straightening up. “All you Submissives are needy sluts; it’s in your nature.”

“Fuck off.”

“Way ahead of you.”

Castiel doesn’t lower the gun until he hears the front door of the station swing shut.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel wakes to his cell vibrating obnoxiously on the nightstand. He grabs it, squints at the screen, and hits the green button with a groan. “Novak,” he croaks and flops back onto his pillow.  
  
“There’s another one.” A familiar voice drifts through the handset, deep and smooth.  
  
“What?” Castiel rubs his eyes and tries to place the voice. Who the hell is calling him at five-thirty in the goddamn morning?  
  
“I got another one of those paper things. You said to call.” A pause. “It’s Dean Winchester.”  
  
Castiel bolts upright, Dean’s words cutting through his sleepy haze. Shit. It’s only been a week.  
  
“I know,” Dean says. Wait, did he say that out loud? “What should I do with it?”  
  
“Don’t touch it.” Castiel falls out of bed, legs tangled in soft cotton sheets, and gropes around for the bedside lamp switch. “Are you with anyone right now?”  
  
“Garth and I just got in,” Dean says. “The office is empty.”  
  
“I’ll be there in fifteen.”  
  
***  
  
The new piece is different. Castiel bends over and tilts his head as he leans in closer. The pages of the book are sliced and rolled into curls of varying tightness and thickness and stacked like waves on top of each other. It’s not folded like the others, but it’s no less ornate and time consuming.  
  
“Is that calculus?” Dean stops next to Castiel and leans down to study the pages.  
  
Castiel lifts the cover off the table with delicate fingers. _Introduction to_ _Calculus_ is printed in block letters on the cover. “Yes.”  
  
“I don’t get it,” Dean mumbles as he tilts his head left then right, staring at the curly waves.  
  
“Me neither.” Castiel frowns. “You saw no one else here this morning?”  
  
“Just us two”—Dean gestures towards Garth—“and I disabled the alarm.”  
  
Castiel’s snapping pictures of the book with his phone when it buzzes with a text from Zar.    
  
_Here. The crime scene blokes are bloody slow._  
  
“My partner’s here.”  
  
“The building’s locked; I’ll go get him.” Garth ducks out of the office. Castiel watches him jog down the hall, and he’s acutely aware just how close Dean is standing beside him.  
  
Outside, the sky turns a shade lighter as the sun peeks from behind the mountains, golden rays scatter in shimmering glitter along the water. The view from Dean’s office is spectacular, but Castiel doesn’t notice it. His nerves are dialed to the max, and Dean’s warmth along his skin rivals that of sunbeams. Castiel swallows then takes a step back. He glances through the glass walls of Dean’s office, wishing like hell Garth would come back soon.  
  
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Dean’s voice startles him, and Castiel’s heart flutters when he turns around to find Dean bathed in the morning sun. “The view.”  
  
He follows Dean’s gaze and drinks in the tranquility of it all. "Yes."  
  
“Was there an origami camera there?” Dean’s voice is soft, lacking the demanding arrogance Castiel’s come to expect.  
  
He shouldn’t discuss details of a crime scene with Dean, but Dean’s involved, linked to this in a way Castiel can’t explain just yet. “There was.”  
  
“Jesus.” Dean huffs out a sigh and his shoulders sag under the weight of it. “Maybe it’s a coincidence, with the paper camera and all, but my photographer missed three scheduled shoots last week. No call, no email. It’s not like her.”  
  
Her.  
  
Dread wraps around Castiel like a tangible thing, cold tendrils seeping through his clothes and into his bones. “Krissy Chambers.”    
  
“Goddamnit—” Dean inhales sharply, a hand scrubs down his face with force.  
  
“Could still be a coincidence,” Castiel offers, his tone more hopeful than he feels. Just because he doesn’t believe in them doesn’t mean they don’t happen.  
  
Dean turns and stares at Castiel, green eyes fierce. He opens his mouth, but the whisper of the glass door interrupts his words and the moment passes.  
  
“Um, you have a lotta partners.” Garth stumbles into the office—scattering the pieces of lingering tension—with Zar and the whole crime scene unit behind him.  
  
“Detective Balthazar Milton.” Zar holds out his hand as people spill from behind him. Someone sets a large toolbox by Dean’s feet and unpacks his gear while another tech snaps on a pair of latex gloves and puts on a face mask. Garth retreats to Dean’s side, his eyes wide, and he startles to the sound of a camera flash going off as the photographer snaps shots of the book.     
  
The glint of shock in Dean’s eyes is brief before he shakes Zar’s hand, and the earlier vulnerability is replaced by something guarded. “Dean Winchester. What’s this about?”  
  
“We’re going to sweep the office,” Zar says, “and I’ll need all the security footage.”  
  
Dean takes a step back as a tech pushes past him, his eyes following her every move as she brushes black powder on his mahogany desk. “Garth, call Bela and have her inform everyone the office is closed for the day.” Dean’s tone is polite, distant, and when he looks at Castiel, his eyes are hard. “And have her tell security to cooperate however they can. Will that be all?”  
  
“We'll need you to come down to the station later this afternoon to answer some questions.” Castiel holds Dean's gaze, his chin sticking out. For someone who's had all this sprung on him, Dean's taking it well in stride, and that somehow irks Castiel.  
  
Dean swings his bag over his shoulder and heads for the door. "Three PM work?"  
  
"Yes," Castiel says. "You should go home and stay there until then. We'll send a uniform over—"  
  
"No need," Dean interrupts, "Garth'll be with me."  
  
Castiel wants to argue, but Zar steps in. "If anything suspicious comes up—"  
  
“I’ll call,” Dean says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

***

The call comes before they finish processing Dean’s office. Castiel’s phone rings first, and Zar fishes his phone out of his pocket as Castiel hangs up.

“I’m driving,” Castiel says as soon as Zar gets off the phone. They rip off their sweaty gloves, grab their coats, and make their way to the elevator.

Cloud Nine is a high end pleasure hotel well known for its elaborate play rooms and discreet policies. They also rent by the hour, which makes them ideal for a mid-day getaway or a little impromptu scening. Castiel steps out of the elevator with Zar in tow and follows the uniform down the dimly lit hallway.

“Cleaning lady found the body. Forensics are already here.” The officer hands them each a pair of gloves.

“Where is she now?”

“Officer Hops is taking her statement downstairs.”

“Do we have an I.D?”

“Kevin Tran. Twenty years old. They’re running background as we speak.”

“Bloody hell, he’s just a kid.”

Castiel steps through the door and freezes, his breath catching as he stares at the body of a young man suspended in the middle of the room. He’s wrapped in red ropes from the neck down. His shoulders are pushed too close, the joints red and swollen, and his elbows are bent at the wrong angle. His hips look dislocated, thighs pulled up and back at an impossible angle as his forearms are bound to his calves, forming a circle with his torso.

Beneath the body is the book of curly waves.

“He's bent like some bloody contortionist,” Zar mutters and looks away, latex stretched thin across his knuckles as his hands ball into fists.

Castiel lays a hand on Zar’s shoulder and squeezes. No matter how many bodies they see, it never gets easier, and a small part of Castiel hopes it never does. They stand like that for a moment, finding comfort in each other’s presence, then Zar pulls away and Castiel follows.   

***

“Winchester’s here.”  

Castiel stops in his tracks, looks up from the evidence list he’s reading, and curses.

“He’s in interrogation three.”

“Thanks, Mills,” Castiel says and checks his watch. It’s half past six.  

Castiel walks to his desk, drops in his chair, and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s just gotten back from the crime scene and forgot about his three PM appointment with Dean. Two neat stacks of papers sit patiently on his desk. The first is the forensics report, and the second is Tran's file. He’s not going to get to either of them until later. As if this day can’t get any longer.

His stomach growls, reminding him the last thing he ate was last night’s microwave dinner. Castiel drains the half empty bottle of water on his desk and promises his disgruntled stomach he’ll grab a real meal on his way home tonight.

“I’m going in with you.” Luc’s voice precedes him and Castiel resists the urge to groan.

“No. Zar and I are taking care of this.”

“The hell I’m not. It’s my case too.”

“Luc—”

“I need to make sure he’s not connected to the drug somehow.” Luc sounds sincere, and the usual sneer he likes to reserve just for Castiel is missing.

“Fine.” Castiel pushes past Luc and pulls out his cell phone, firing off a text to Zar.  

 _Going in to talk_ _to Winchester with_ _Luc_ _._ _Interrogation_ _3._   

Dean’s sitting in the drab interrogation room, back straight and a bottle of water untouched by his steepled fingers. His eyes snap to the door as soon as Castiel walks through, and the weight of his gaze falls on Castiel’s shoulders like bricks. “I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

“Tough shit,” Luc says before Castiel has a chance to respond and sits himself across from Dean. Castiel sighs and slips into the chair beside Luc. It’s going to be a long interview, and they haven’t even started. “Dead body trumps your afternoon tea, Winchester.”

"Do I look British to you?"

"You look like the kinda rich kid who used to ride mommy and daddy's Cadillac to school every morning." 

“Okay, we’re done.” Dean pushes off the table and stands up.

Castiel bolts out of his chair, his hand reaching across to touch Dean’s for a split second. “Wait.”

Dean glances at Castiel’s hand—already retreating—and looks up with an unreadable glint in his eyes. “I don’t enjoy insults. That’s more of a sub thing, isn’t it?”

Castiel clenches his jaw and takes a deep breath. _Let it go_ _._ _Just_ _let it go_ _._ “Look, we just have a few questions—”

“Only if you ask them.” Dean shifts his glance to Luc and flashes a smile with way too many teeth.

Luc opens his mouth but Castiel beats him to it. “Okay, fine.” He sits and blows out a slow breath before spreading eight photographs out on the table. “You recognize anyone besides Krissy Chambers?”

“No. Never seen them before.” Dean leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. He answered Castiel’s question, but he’s staring at Luc, unblinking.

Castiel spreads out eight more shots of the origami from the crime scenes. “Is the placement of any of these significant to you?”

“No.”

“How—”

“Sure you don’t recognize her?” Luc cuts in and holds up a photo of a brunette who looks to be in her late twenties. “Macey Grove. Name ring any bells?”

Dean sits forward, eyes harder than steel, and holds Luc’s gaze.

“Ever heard of MiraCure?” Luc flicks the photo toward Dean. It flutters onto the table by Dean’s clasped hands. “Wouldn’t be hard for you to smuggle this stuff across the border. Nice, respectable Dominant like yourself.”

Dean remains silent, body rigid as he sits statue still save for the little quirk of the corner of his lips. A challenge, a declaration, whatever it is, it’s having the desired effect. Luc scrubs a hand down his face. “Look, eight people are dead and the drug was found at her crime scene”—he jabs a finger at the photo by Dean’s hands—“and you’re connected to all this somehow. So you better start talking—”

“Or what?” Dean says, voice bored, and shrugs. “Can’t arrest me without some solid evidence.”

“Dean, please—”

“Stay out of this, Novak.”

“I said I’ll only answer Detective Novak’s questions.”

“You’ll answer to a sub?” Luc sneers and glances at Castiel.

“Better a sub than an asshole.”

“Why you—” Luc lunges out of his chair, his hands slam against the table, and Castiel flinches.

“Detective Marks.” Castiel grabs Luc’s elbow and pulls him to the door. Luc glares between Castiel and Dean, teeth bared, and Castiel suppresses the urge to smile. As much as it pleases him to see Luc humbled, they’re getting nowhere. “People are dying. You’re not helping.”

Luc stares at Dean for a long, hard second, then his face splits into a nasty smile as he leans into Castiel and whispers, “Go kiss his boot, you’re good at that.” He shakes off Castiel’s hand and straightens his shirt before yanking the door open and leaving without a backward glance. Castiel returns to his seat, gathers up the photographs, and tries to recollect his thoughts as rage threatens to boil through his skin.

“I don’t know her. And never heard of MiraCure either.” Dean’s voice cuts through the roar in Castiel’s ears. It’s soft, yet firm and grounding, an anchor Castiel can grab onto.  

“All right. Anyone you can think of that might want to hurt you?”

“I piss people off every day, detective. It’s my job,” Dean says, and with every word, Castiel relaxes to the sound of Dean’s voice. It’s easier to think without all that noise in his ears.

“Perhaps a past Submissive?” The words leave a bitter taste on his tongue, but even Castiel’s not naïve enough to think a Submissive isn’t capable of murder. “Someone you, um, refused to contract or collar?”

“You’re gonna need a bigger notepad.”

Castiel resists the urge to roll his eyes. His phone buzzes, interrupting the words on the tip of his tongue, and a text from Zar lights up the screen.

 _Need_ _you now. It’s about_ _Winchester_ _._  

“Excuse me,” Castiel says and leaves the room. Zar is waiting outside, a blue folder open in his hands. “What?”

“The last victim, Kevin Tran, he worked for Winchester.” Zar hands Castiel a single sheet of paper and points near the bottom of the page. “Can’t be a coincidence.”

“Fuck.”

“Already spoke to Singer. Gonna need eyes on Winchester twenty-four seven.”

“He’s not going to like it.”

“I’ll book the room for him and set up a detail.” Zar squeezes Castiel’s shoulder and runs a hand down his arm. “Need me to pack a bag tonight?”

“I’d…I’d like that.” Castiel rubs his eyes and sighs. He’s not looking forward to the conversation he’s about to have with Dean, but the prospect of being taken out of his head for a while later tonight is like water on a parched tongue. He takes the folder from Zar, flips it open, and the photograph of a young Asian man smiles up at him. Somedays, Castiel wonders why the hell he joined homicide. He snaps the file shut.

Dean’s fiddling with his unopened bottle of water when Castiel steps through the door and closes it behind him again. He slides back into his chair, lays the file down, and pulls out the shot of Kevin Tran. Dean’s following Castiel’s every move, but when his gaze drops to the photo, his eyes widen, muscles shift as his jaw clenches, and colour drains from his cheeks. His splash of freckles are stark against pale skin.

“That’s Kevin.” He pulls the glossy photo close and looks down at it.

“We found him this afternoon—”

“The book?”

“Identical one at the crime scene.”

“Jesus—” Dean pushes the photo away from him and takes a shuddering breath as he rakes trembling fingers through his hair.

“This isn’t your fault.”

“Damn right it’s not,” Dean snaps. “But fuck.”

“What’s your relationship with Kevin?”

“Managing editor.”

“You were close?”

Dean shrugs and takes another deep breath before answering. “I make the demands. He made them happen. Best managing editor I ever had.”

“We think you might be the target,” Castiel says and closes his notebook. “We’ll need to relocate you. An officer will be with you at all times until we catch the killer.”

“The hell I will,” Dean growls, and the steel in his glare intensifies the green in his eyes.

“You have little choice in this.”

“No, I’m not gonna hide—”

“Not hide. Just make it harder for you to get killed.”

Dean stares at him for a long minute, and Castiel can almost hear the gears grinding in Dean’s head as silence stretches like taffy between them. He doesn’t have time for this, still has a buttload of paperwork to go through and evidence to check. If Dean wants to make this difficult, Castiel isn’t above going to Singer and keeping him at the station until he cooperates.

“Fine. But I get to choose the place.” Dean crosses his arms and sits back in his chair.

“My partner’s already got a room booked.”

“Don’t care. My choice or I’m not going.” Dean smiles. It’s the smile of a man who’s used to getting what he wants, and if Castiel wasn’t already stretched to the limit, he’d fight a little harder just to bring a Dominant like Dean down a peg. As it stands, he’s way too tired, and the calm from his last session with Zar is wearing impossibly thin.

“Okay. Fine. But I’m coming with you until an officer gets there.”

“Deal.” Dean twists the cap off his bottle and takes a long drink before continuing, “But I’m driving.”  

***

Castiel shifts and the leather seat squeaks as he runs a hand along the cool surface. He's not surprised Dean drives a classic, and she's obviously well loved, purring along the near empty streets of Coal Harbour.

"Which year?"

"The best one," Dean says with a sideways glance, his green eyes sparkling. "'67."

"She's gorgeous."

"Told you, I like pretty things."

Castiel turns to look out the window, hiding the smile that's impossible to shake. Dean Winchester is like every Dominant Castiel has ever met: arrogant, brash, and downright rude when he wants to be. But there's also something simmering underneath that pulls at him. A tenderness that soothes and an attentiveness that’s almost uncanny.

Dean takes a right, and the Impala stops smoothly in front of an extravagant entranceway. A valet boy opens Castiel’s door, and Dean’s already stepping out before Castiel can yell at him to get the hell back in.

“The Westin Bayshore? Seriously?” Castiel jumps back a step as the car pulls away.

“What?” Dean says with a shrug. “I like nice things, too.” He straightens his jacket, tucks his hands into his pant pockets, and eats the distance between the driveway and the lobby in long strides.

Castiel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, the calm of a mere moment ago evaporating like water on hot asphalt. He turns with a flutter of his coat in the evening ocean breeze and mutters a string of curses as he chases after Dean. If Winchester thinks he’s calling all the shots, he’s sorely mistaken.

“This isn’t a vacation.” Castiel catches up as Dean walks up to reception. “Taxpayers are _not_ paying for this.”

“They’re not. I am.” Dean smiles at the front desk concierge, flashing his row of pearly whites, and the poor girl (another Submissive with a collar on the job, Christ) stumbles over herself as she rushes over. “The International Suit for D—”  

“Novak,” Castiel cuts in and pushes Dean to the side. “Castiel Novak.” He glares at Dean and passes over his credit card. Dean flashes him a smile—all deep dimples and rounded cheeks—and wanders off to the other side of the lobby with his phone pressed to his ear.

“Mr. Novak—”

“Detective.” Castiel flashes the badge on his belt.

“I know.” She avoids his eyes, a shy smile curving the corners of her lips, and pushes a small envelope across the reception desk along with a glossy brochure with a gorgeous shot of the harbour printed on the front. “Your keys. WiFi password is on the envelope. Call us anytime if you need _anything_.” Castiel does not like the way she emphasized _anything_.

She glances at Dean, a glint of recognition in her eyes, and Castiel swipes everything off the counter before she makes any more assumptions. Doing that stupid article for the most popular dom/sub magazine in the country was a mistake, and it’s just his luck his charge is the cover boy for last month’s issue.  

He waves at Dean—no longer on the phone and studying a potted plant—and stomps down the hall to the elevator, punching the up button with force. He stares at Dean through their distorted reflection in the chrome doors. “You’re paying me back. Every last cent.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

The International Suite turns out to be so much bigger than Castiel imagined. The foyer gives way to a massive open room with two separate sitting areas, and two doors line the short hallway that leads away from the living room. Castiel looks across the vast space and just makes out the size of the rooftop deck through the floor-to-ceiling windows as the sun dips below the horizon. The suite is ridiculous—it’s bigger than Castiel’s apartment—and he’s not sure what to make of this.

Why the hell do they need two flat screens in the living room?

Castiel turns around, hell bent on giving Dean a piece of his mind, but his cell phone buzzes in his pocket. He picks it up without checking the screen, still angry with Dean and with himself for letting Dean coerce him into this. “What.”

“Novak.”

“Staff Sergeant Singer.” Castiel swallows and scrubs a hand down his face. Goddamnit.

“You with Winchester?”

“Yes. Detective Milton is sending over an officer.”

“No he ain’t. Stay with him.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Castiel swaps his phone from one ear to the other, and the pit of his stomach hits the floor.

“Mayor Harvelle called,” Singer says, and Castiel isn’t imagining the hint of annoyance in his voice. “Says Winchester only wants you.”

Winchester wants him? Castiel grips the phone tighter and ignores the squeeze in his chest. “I’m the lead detective. I should be out there—wait, he’s got the mayor on speed dial?”

“Nothin’ I can do. Papa Winchester and the mayor got history. Found her some rare antique car or something. Anyway, just keep him alive and happy.”   

Castiel takes a deep breath, then another, and when he trusts he won’t get himself fired, he says, “Yes, sir.”

The line goes dead, but Castiel stands rooted to the spot as he stares daggers into the darkening night. The phone is warm in his hand, plastic burning as hot as his anger. This is bullshit. He’s a homicide detective; it’s not his job to babysit a rich, spoiled brat who's had his whole life handed to him on a silver platter. Dean is no different than any other Dominant from a traditional family. They think they own the world, and the lives of the people living in it mean nothing to them.

“Make yourself at home.” Dean’s voice cuts through Castiel’s rage, and his very presence is a splash of gasoline on fire. “I’m taking the master; hope you don’t mind.”

Castiel nods, too angry to answer, and dials Zar with shaking fingers.

“Where the hell are you?” Zar’s concerned voice drifts through, accent thicker than usual. Castiel slaps his forehead and groans. They were supposed to meet at his place tonight.

“Zar, can you grab my overnight bag and bring it to the Westin Bayshore?”

“You wanker, finally found yourself a sugar daddy?”

“Ha ha. Not funny,” Castiel says and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s been doing that so much it’s becoming a habit. “I’m stuck babysitting Winchester. Can you bring me all my files and laptop as well?”

“Wait, seriously?” Zar coughs, but Castiel catches the snort anyway.

“Zar—”

“All right. All right.” The sound of rustling fabric and the unmistakable jingle of keys drift through the speaker. “Be there in an hour.”

“Thanks.”

Castiel hangs up and turns back to face the room. Dean is nowhere in sight, and Castiel breathes a sigh of relief as he wanders over to the couch and sinks into the soft cushion. There’s not much he can do until Zar delivers his things, and he can’t leave Dean alone even if he could use a walk...or a run. Or really anything to keep his mind off the fact he’s as good as benched for the rest of the case.  

The master bedroom door flings open. Dean walks out in jeans and an old ratty band t-shirt, holding an open laptop in one hand and a thick binder in the other. He sits on the couch across from Castiel, drops the binder on the coffee table with a loud thud, and leans back with the laptop balancing on his thighs.

“What’re you doing?” Castiel frowns and sits up straight.

“Uh, working?”

“You can’t go online.”

“The hell I can’t.” Dean makes a face at Castiel. “I’m using a proxy and Garth’s login for everything. Not stupid, you know.”

“Wait, so Garth knows about this?”

“Look, the magazine isn’t going to stop running just because of this”—Dean waves his hand between them—“and I can’t run it without Garth. So yeah, he knows. And he’ll be coming by in the morning to bring me the rest of my things.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Castiel mutters and leans back into the couch, his eyes screwed shut as a slow pounding headache radiates from the base of his skull. It’s been too long since his last session, and the headaches will only get worse unless he finds a way to ease the need. Exercise is out of the question, not while he’s still in work clothes, so Castiel flicks on the TV and channel surfs until his mind wanders, and the itching beneath his skin lets up.

His phone buzzes, and the screen lights up with a text from Zar. Castiel jumps to his feet. He’s surprised to find Dean still there, buried nose deep in his laptop. The giant binder is open, and papers are scattered everywhere. Castiel checks his watch; it’s a little after eleven.

He texts Zar their suite number and waits by the door, ears straining to hear soft footsteps on the plush carpet outside. The knock’s still echoing when Castiel yanks the door open and steps out into the hall.

“I know he’s hot, but an entire month’s salary on a room?” Zar holds out a leather duffle and a laptop bag; the corner of a file folder sticks out from the back pocket.

“Shut up.” Castiel rolls his eyes and reaches for his bags, but Zar pulls away.

“Are you going to be all right?”

“Singer’s orders.” Castiel grabs his duffle and shoulders the laptop bag. “I’ll live. Got my headphones now so I can meditate.”

“You know—”

“Don’t!”

“Wow, keep your wig on!” Zar takes a step back and holds up both hands, and Castiel snorts when Zar’s eyebrows shoot up like rockets. “Just, call if you need anything.”

“I will. Go home. Get some rest.”

When Castiel lets himself back into the room, he doesn’t look at Dean, just bee-lines for the spare bedroom across from the master suite and shuts the door behind him with a loud click.

***

Castiel pulls the buds from his ears and takes a deep breath, his eyes falling shut as his lungs fill with crisp, morning air. The sun peeks out from the mountain tops, and its warmth wraps around him. He unfurls his legs—the deck flooring rough beneath his bare feet—and laces his fingers above his head while twisting his torso. Meditation has always helped when the urge becomes too much, and the calm he’s riding now brings clarity.  

He needs to speak with Dean. Find someone else to stay with him so Castiel can go back to doing his job. The longer he sits here being unproductive, the longer it’ll take them to find the killer. More people will die. Surely, Dean will understand.

A knock at the front door drifts through the open sliding glass door. Castiel whips around, muscles coiled tight as his hand goes to his hip to find he’s left his gun in his room. The master bedroom door swings open, and Dean—his hair sticking up and his eyes still heavy with sleep—stumbles out wearing nothing but a robe. He reaches for the front door.

Castiel sprints inside and across the living room, and grabs Dean’s wrist in a tight grip before he can open it. “What the hell are you doing?” Castiel hisses and stares at Dean.

“I ordered breakfast.” Dean looks from his wrist to Castiel then to the door.

“Breakfast—” Castiel inhales through his nose and breathes out through his mouth, his calm evaporating with the exhale. “Get back. I’ll answer it.”

When Castiel pulls the trolley through the door—after reassuring the hotel staff he can set his own table—Dean’s already seated at the dinner table. “Who’s gonna pour my coffee now?”

“Pour your own damn coffee.” Castiel grabs the cutleries and notices there are two sets, and two stainless steel dome covered plates, two mugs beside two French presses, and two glasses flipped upside down next to a jug of orange juice. Behind the juice is a cloth covered basket with a small jar of strawberry jam and butter balanced on top.

“I’ll pour us both coffee if you eat with me.” Dean leans forward and reaches for the French presses, his robe falling open as he sits back into his chair to pour steaming black liquid into a mug. Sunlight gleams along miles of tanned skin, creating shadows in the valleys of his well toned abs, and when Dean twists and reaches for the second mug, the tie around his waist unravels to reveal muscular things and—

Castiel’s mouth dries up like a desert, and he steadfastly focuses on transferring the food from the trolley to the table. He’s annoyed at Dean’s lack of modesty, but he’s more angry at himself for the rush of blood in his ears and the flutter in his chest as his body reacts to the indecent display. Dean’s physique is magnificent, and the air of self-assured confidence in even the smallest thing he does threatens to pull Castiel under.

He yearns for...something, and it’s an irritating buzz beneath his skin.

“Put on some real clothes, will you?” Castiel stares at his distorted reflection in the dome cover as he sets a plate in front of Dean. “At least some underwear.”

“Why?” Dean cocks an eyebrow. “I’m not ashamed of my body,” he says with an air of indignant arrogance, but closes the front of his robe and secures the sash anyway.

"I'm ashamed for you." Castiel resists the urge to roll his eyes and slides a plate across the table.

The smell of bacon and fresh coffee permeates the air, and Castiel can’t remember the last time he sat down and ate a decent meal. Dean ordered two breakfasts—Castiel can’t decide if it’s out of common courtesy or guilt; Dean seems incapable of either—and it would be a damn shame to waste good food because Dean can’t make the effort to put on pants.

He takes a seat on the opposite end of the table and pulls the dome off his plate, and his mouth waters at the sight of scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and three slices of watermelon with a cluster of grapes. If they’re going to eat like this every morning, Castiel will need to add in some extra workouts.     

Dean places the mug of coffee across the table, then lifts the dome off his plate and picks up a fork. They eat in silence broken by the occasional “want some juice?” or “pass the jam, please.” But Castiel sags under the weight of the one question he’s been wanting to ask since last night.

“Why me?”

Dean looks up, a smear of ketchup in the corner of his lips, and chews before answering, “Why not?”

“You called the mayor.”

“She’s a friend.”

“Stop avoiding the question.”

Dean pulls the basket of baked goods close and digs around until he finds a triangle of sourdough toast. He slathers on a generous amount of butter and jam and takes a bite before looking at Castiel, his expression unreadable. “Wanted to make sure I had the best. Was told that's you.”

“I—”

“You saying you’re not?”

Castiel bites the inside of his cheek and glares at Dean. There’s no way he can request for an officer to replace him now, not when Dean’s eyes are ablaze with green fire and an unspoken challenge. A small part of Castiel knows he’s playing right into Dean’s hand. The fear of that knowledge is electrifying, but Dean’s not the first Dominant to think he can push Castiel around, and he sure as hell won’t be the last. Castiel’s played this game before and he’s confident he won’t lose. Even if a shiver runs down his spine every time Dean looks his way.

He _should_ demand for an officer to replace him, should try to solve this case as quickly as possible so he can go back to his life and get as far away from Dean Winchester as possible. Instead, he grabs the jug of orange juice, pours two glasses, and hands one to Dean. “No, you’re right.” He drains half the glass in one long swallow. “I am.”

***

They talked little after breakfast that day, except when Dean ordered more room service for lunch and dinner.

Garth came by the next day as promised and brought another thick binder to replace the one Dean had been working on. Castiel had stayed on the opposite end of the ridiculously large living room and only caught snippets of Dean and Garth’s heated conversation about their new managing editor.

“I’m not working with that son of a bitch Gordon,” Dean said with a finality that made Garth wince, and the smaller man promised it was temporary until they found someone permanent.

Castiel closes his eyes and rubs them—wincing softly when blotches of white light explode behind his eyelids—and peels his lids open to look at the piles of papers strewn about on the desk he’s claimed as his work space. Since he’s not out in the field, he’s dead set on combing through the victims’ lives to find something more than “brutally murdered” to connect them.

In the past two days, he’s gone through everyone’s background checks, emails, and social media accounts. Zar had finally gotten ahold of the medical records and sent them over that morning. Castiel’s been pouring over them but the pressure in his skull is becoming too much.  

He hasn’t gone under in over a week. Although he managed his urges in the past with meditation, exercise, and mind-numbing activities, having Zar around has spoiled him. His tricks aren’t working like they used to, and it’s becoming harder and harder to ignore the buzzing in his ears and the ever-growing headache.

“Man, being a detective isn’t nearly as glamorous as it looks on TV,” Dean says as he comes up behind Castiel. He rests one hand on the back of Castiel’s chair and leans in close to stare at Ethel Wilhelm’s medical records. “That’s a helluva lotta reading. And what kinda name is Ethel, anyway?”

“Show the dead some respect, Dean,” Castiel grumbles. “And my job’s a lot more _glamorous_ when I’m not stuck babysitting.”

“Sure it is.” Dean pushes scattered papers back and hops onto the desk, his feet dangling as he sits back. “What do you want for lunch?”

“Not hungry.” Castiel gathers the papers and raps them against the edge of the desk, organizing them into a neat pile before sticking them into a folder. “You eat.”

“You work too much. Should take a break at least.”

“Some of us need to work hard,” Castiel snaps, and the headache he’s been ignoring all day flares up ten fold and rips his filter to shreds. “Especially when the whole world wants me to fail.” The words don’t register until it’s too late and he’s said too much. Beyond being extremely unprofessional, Castiel’s never let his mask slip in front of anyone, least of all a Dominant who’s also a near stranger. Sure, he’s on edge, been fighting the ever-growing need to scratch at the unreachable itch all over his skin, but that’s no excuse for his outburst.  

Dean’s lips press into thin, white lines, and he studies Castiel with an intensity that leaves him feeling naked and vulnerable. “You could let me help. No funny stuff, just—”

“No!” Castiel flinches as if slapped. It’s tempting, and it would be so easy; a nod and a few ground rules, and Castiel could slip under and ease the pressure crushing him. But what would that make him? A failure and a damn hypocrite. Everything he’s fought for, stood for, and everything he’s worked so hard to achieve would be meaningless if he can’t even handle his own needs. “Just—leave me alone. Please.”

Silence settles like ash around them, suffocating. Dean’s eyes narrow, and Castiel can’t help but feel like Dean sees a lot more than he lets on.

“You know, sometimes us Dominants are victims too.” Dean hops onto his feet and walks away without a backward glance. Castiel watches Dean pick up the phone and order two cheeseburgers with fries, and it hits him like a ton of bricks. He reaches for his laptop and flips through all the medical records, looking for an inconspicuous line near the bottom, and blows out the breath he’s holding once he’s checked them all.       

“Holy shit,” Castiel mutters. “You’re a genius.”

“What?”

“They’re all Dominants.”

“Who—”

“Except Wilhelm. She’s a Neutral.”

“What did I—”

“What you said. Dominants are victims.”

Dean blinks at Castiel, green eyes sparkling like gems. “Wait, so I helped?”

Castiel beams and forgets the itch and the headaches for the moment. “Yes. Thank you, Dean.”

“Well, since I cracked this thing wide open—”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“—you’re having lunch with me.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and nods with a smile.   

***

“You know this is complete bullshit right?” Dean flops next to Castiel on the couch, his button-up riding up his stomach as he stretches and rubs his eyes.

It had been a long day for them both. Castiel trying to link Wilhelm to the the other victims, and Dean shouting into the phone and typing furiously on his laptop, the contents of the giant binder strewn about all over the living room table. Castiel has no idea what running a world famous magazine involves, but he’s watched Dean work from sun up to sun down for a week now, and perhaps he was too quick to judge Dean’s work ethics. He certainly had no idea being editor-in-chief requires so much yelling.

“Actually, I do.” Castiel’s only too aware of Dean’s proximity and shifts until he’s pressed against the far side of the couch, putting as much distance between his thigh and Dean’s head as possible. “I’m stuck here too.”

“But it’s _Friday,"_ Dean whines and tilts his head up, green eyes pinning Castiel to the cushion. “You can come with me. We’ll just get a drink or two, dance with some honeys. No harm, no foul.”

“No.” Castiel tucks his legs under him and turns back to his laptop. He’s going through the motions of reading, but the words aren’t registering as the headache he’s been keeping at bay all day crawls back to pound against his skull. Dean’s eyes are on him, gaze burning into his skin with laser focus.

“You doing okay?” Dean’s voice is soft, all traces of belligerence gone.

“I’m fine.”

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

“I—” Castiel can’t remember. Been too sick to worry about food and too irritable to think straight. He wants to lose himself in a run or drown out the buzzing in his ears swimming laps. Or get on his knees and take a paddle until he’s sobbing.  

“Castiel—”

“Detective Novak.”

“—can you get me a bottle of water?” Dean sits up, back straight, and rolls up his sleeves with slow, deliberate twists of his wrist.

Castiel wants to snap at Dean to get his own damn water, but there’s something in the way Dean’s looking at him that gives Castiel pause. They stare at each other for a long minute, until Castiel looks away first and unfurls from the couch. He walks into the kitchen and pulls a bottle of water from the fridge. The short walk back to the living room is hazy. “Thank you,” Dean says as he twists the cap open with a crack. “I think I’d like some dinner.”

Castiel doesn’t remember handing Dean the bottle. He tilts his head and watches Dean chatter to himself, the muscles of Dean’s throat shifting as he swallows sips of water between words.

“Dinner sounds really good right now, Castiel. Don’t you agree?” Dean’s gaze falls on him like a soft blanket. Castiel nods even though the thought of food still makes him queasy. “You should order us something. I’m feeling like pasta. Ravioli. And apple pie for dessert. I think you’d like the same.”

Dean’s voice is level, a gentle roll of smooth syllables that soothes the raw edges of Castiel’s nerves. Alarm bells ring in the back of his head, but the chimes are muted as if Castiel’s underwater. He reaches for the phone and dials room service, feeling like he’s forgotten something, but the only thoughts in his head are ravioli and apple pie. Castiel repeats the order to the woman on the other end of the line before dropping the phone back into the receiver.

He looks over at Dean, his mind an empty slate, and waits. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for or why he’s waiting at all, but his limbs are leaden and his chest is heavy and he needs Dean to—

“C’mere and sit with me, Cas,” Dean says, then adds quickly, “It’s okay if I call you Cas?”

Castiel nods and follows the sound of Dean’s voice, each step measured, until he’s standing right beside Dean. He glances at the couch, but his knees refuse to bend. He doesn’t want to sit next to Dean, doesn’t know what he wants, only that sitting by Dean’s side feels…wrong.

“Would you prefer the floor?” Dean points at the spot by his feet, and a flood of warmth runs through Castiel. He nods once and sinks to his knees. Dean touches his wrist, halting his descent. “Wait.” Dean yanks a cushion from the love seat and drops it on the floor by his feet. “Okay, go ahead, Cas.”

When his knees strike the soft cushion, the room settles around him in silken hues. Castiel looks out the wall of windows; it’s dark out. The moon sits serene in the sky and shafts of silver light skim the surface of the ocean. It is quiet save for Dean’s even breathing and the tic-toc of the grandfather clock. Castiel sits back on his heels, his hands on his thighs, palms facing down, and the quiescent moment seeps through his skin and into his bones.

Time loses its hold on Castiel as he kneels by Dean’s feet, his mind adrift, weightless and carefree. Dean places a hand on the back of his neck. Castiel sways back, basks in the dry heat of Dean’s palm. He’s lost until Dean gives him a gentle shake.

“Dinner’s here. I can’t get that,” Dean says. “I need you to get the door. Can you stand?”

Castiel registers a persistent knock. He slips off the cushion and, with Dean’s help, gets up on unsteady feet. Dean can’t answer the door. It’s the rules. Policy. His job. It’s his job to protect Dean. Castiel takes a deep breath, then another before letting go of Dean’s hand. He answers the door, tips the delivery man, and pulls the trolley in with infinite care.

The aroma of garlic and herbs dance around him, and the smell of cinnamon sugar and caramelized apples wraps around him like a thick, warm scarf.

Safe. He’s safe here; he can fall without care because Dean will catch him.

Dean’s beside him, picking up the domed plates and carrying them to the living room table as he chatters at Castiel. The words float above him, but Dean’s voice is pleasant, deep like the sea and soft like velvet. He’s back by Dean’s feet, and he doesn’t remember kneeling until Dean strokes his hair and holds a piece of ravioli to his lips with his fingers. Castiel opens his mouth without thought, and a rich swirl of flavours bursts on his tongue as he bites through the pasta.

The butternut squash filling is heavenly: silky-smooth and so fluffy it’s like a cloud in his mouth. He chews with care, savouring the notes of parmesan cheese and nutmeg, and swallows only when Dean holds up a second piece in front of him.

He’s never been fed like this before, never had another man’s fingers in his mouth for no reason other than slipping in pockets of food. Castiel’s stomach growls, and for the first time today his body doesn’t revolt at the idea of food. Hunger takes over thought as small pieces of pasta covered in an aromatic sauce appear in front of him, and Castiel laps up every morsel, eager for more with every bite.

Pasta is soon replaced by warm, sticky apples and pieces of flakey crust. Castiel closes his lips around Dean’s fingers and moans, a soft, unguarded noise rolling from Castiel’s tongue to Dean’s fingertips. Dean freezes, and Castiel dips his head forward and takes the fingers a little deeper, his tongue twirling to lap around the sticky digits.

A soft gasp catches Castiel’s attention. He looks up and forgets how to breathe when the weight of Dean’s gaze drapes over him. There’s so much green, like enchanted forests and sparkling oceans, places Castiel can get lost in. He shudders and drops his eyes, overwhelmed by the immensity of Dean’s undivided attention, and focuses on cleaning Dean’s fingers instead.

Castiel eats every piece of pie Dean offers, taking painstaking care to clean Dean’s fingers with every bite. He doesn’t know how long dinner takes, only Dean’s pleased with him as he murmurs _good boy_ and _so good for me_ over and over as he toys with Castiel’s lips and tongue.

Dean pulls Castiel close, lays Castiel’s head on his thigh, and runs idle fingers through Castiel’s hair as he eats his own dinner. Castiel closes his eyes against the soothing scratch of Dean’s fingernails across his scalp, his body lax as he floats along the blurred space between consciousness and slumber.

Castiel rubs his cheek against the rough denim, buries his face into the fold of Dean’s hip, and forgets for a moment why he’s there. The soft clinks of metal on ceramic rain down like water droplets against his skin. Castiel sways to the sound, the room coming in and out of focus as his eyelids droop. Dean slides his hand down Castiel’s neck and squeezes, strong fingers massaging tight muscles until Castiel’s soft like putty.

At some point Dean shifts, and large hands grip Castiel’s arms and pull him to his feet. The walls move past him in slow motion, or perhaps he’s the one shuffling, following Dean’s murmured directions without pause. He steps through a doorway—they’re in his room, that’s his overnight bag sitting quietly in the corner—and looks out the window to find the moon glowing even brighter.

The world tilts, and Castiel sinks into the mattress as if swallowed by a cloud. The pillow under his head is marshmallow soft, and the sheets cool against his heated skin as Dean pulls the comforter over him.

“Shh, go to sleep,” Dean whispers and the mattress dips when he sits on the edge.

A chill runs down his spine at the thought Dean might leave him there, and Castiel reaches out and grabs Dean’s hand. Gentle fingers card through Castiel’s hair, and it takes him a moment to realize Dean hasn’t pulled his hand from Castiel’s grasping fingers. The feeling of safety returns, his eyes flutter shut, and despite his best efforts to stay awake, sleep claims him to the soothing cadence of Dean’s touch.


	5. Chapter 5

Castiel didn’t speak to Dean the next day. Couldn’t even muster up the energy to yell at him. His rage has been burning for three days now, and the embers are still hot as Castiel opens the door and signs for lunch. He grabs his plate and leaves as soon as Dean walks in, heading for his room before Dean can utter a word.   

As much as he wants to, he can’t pin it all on Dean. Sure, Dean had given him orders without consent, had crossed every line ever drawn in the sand, and if he was still in school, he’d have failed Basic Dominant Etiquette. But Castiel was the one who let it to happen. He overestimated his own abilities and put them both in danger.

If the killer had shown up that night, Castiel wouldn’t have known which end of the gun to point away from himself. Going under unprepared is bad enough, going under unprepared while on a job is inexcusably stupid and unprofessional.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe subs _are_ slaves to their biology. And if Castiel’s being honest, he wouldn’t have made the advancements he has without Zar’s constant support.  

Castiel pushes the laptop from his lap and leans back into his mountain of pillows, his eyes gritty and his legs numb. He’s lost track of time trying to figure out the connection between all the other origami and the newest one Garth delivered yesterday despite Dean’s personal office being off limits.

The koi fish is made up of a series of American twenty-dollar bills, each one folded then slotted against the next to form a pattern that mimics scales. Castiel sent pictures of the origami to Zar and had an officer come by to take it in for examination, hoping and praying for trace evidence that can give them a break through.

He’s not holding his breath, though. The killer has been careful so far, and nothing suggests she (or he—Castiel’s not discounting men until he’s sure) will slip up this time.

But something is changing. The first seven kills seem to be random, and the origami pieces left at Dean’s office were more like offerings than threats. The last two have been closer to home. Both victims were connected to Dean, and each origami was connected to the victims through their occupation.

“Oh—” Castiel freezes mid stretch, his eyes widening as he reaches for his laptop. Their occupations: the camera for the photographer and the calculus book for the editing manager with the mathematics degree.  

His fingers fly across the keyboard as gears grind away in his head. He punches the words ‘koi fish significance’ into Google, and the internet delivers. Overcoming obstacles and reaching goals, completing a transformation in life, worldly aspiration and advancement. Too vague, but Castiel keeps those in mind as he closes the first search and opens the next link.

“Power, independence, masculinity,” he mutters. If the pattern holds, these are all Dominant oriented characteristics. He closes this link and opens the next, and his breath catches as he scans the article.

Wealth. The koi fish is the bringer of wealth. Money. The thing is folded in money. Castiel grabs his laptop and dashes out of his room.

Dean is sitting on the couch—a pair of black rimmed glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose, his giant binder open on his lap—and chewing on the end of a large red marker. He doesn’t look up when Castiel skids to a stop next to him, and Castiel’s unsure if Dean’s ignoring him or engrossed in his work. Regardless, a tendril of annoyance slithers into his voice when he says, “Dean, who’s your money guy?”

Dean blinks and looks up, and his glasses slide an inch down his nose. “Sorry, what?”

“Your accountant. Or someone that’s power hungry, made aggressive advancements, who also deals with money.” Castiel grips his laptop tighter and wills the tremor in his hands to still, but he’s vibrating all over, and Dean needs to wipe that confused scowl off his face and answer his damn question.

“Uh,” Dean says and pauses, his eyes rolling to the ceiling as he chews on his pen. “Crowley? Definitely Crowley.”

“Who’s that?”

“The CFO—”

A knock cuts Dean short, and Castiel curses as he lays his laptop on the table, snaps open the strap on his holster, and walks to the door with his hand on the butt of his gun. He looks through the peephole and exhales in relief when Garth’s already large nose fills up the fisheye view. Castiel unlocks the door and steps back as Garth pushes through, another binder tucked under his left arm.

“What's in that binder?” Castiel follows Garth back to the living room and watches Dean hand over the one he’s been working on before accepting the new one.

“It’s the next issue of _Crusin’_ _Classics_ ,” Dean replies. “The team puts it together. I go over it and approve each page and send back edits. Garth comes back with the revised version and we keep going till it’s ready for print.”

“Huh.” They swap out binders almost every day, and Dean goes over each one page by page until he’s satisfied with everything? Castiel stares at the two thick stacks of papers bound by the biggest ring binders he’s ever seen, impressed with how much work and dedication Dean puts into every page of the magazine.   

This doesn’t mean Castiel isn’t still angry with him. “Anyway, Crowley.”

“He’s the guy that cooks the books,” Dean says with a wink.

“Well, if I’m correct, he won’t be cooking anything anymore.”

Dean’s smile freezes and his brows crease. He asks as Castiel dials Zar, “You think the fish thing is Crowley?”     

“I’ll explain later,” Castiel says and turns away when the call goes through. “Zar, I need you to go to _Cruisin’_ _Classics_ and look for a Crowley—” He turns back and mouths ‘first name?’ at Dean.

“Fergus.”

“Fergus Crowley.” Castiel turns his back on the duo sitting on the couch again and scrubs a hand down his face. “Let me know if you find him.”

“I’m in the area. Are you onto something, Cassie?”

“Yes. I’ll email you the details.” He hangs up and turns back just as Garth hands Dean a slim, black box. A black card with the silhouette of a white cat is taped to the lid.

“I better be going.” Garth shoulders his bag and gets up. “I’ll be back tomorrow with the revisions.” He looks over at Castiel, eyes sad as he gives Castiel a strained smile and a wave, and lets himself out the front door.

Castiel gathers up his laptop and starts toward his room.

“Hey, Cas—”

“Detective Novak,” Castiel grouses and keeps walking.

“Okay, Detective Novak.” Dean chases after him and lays a gentle touch on Castiel’s elbow. “Can we talk?”

A jolt of lightning shoots up his arm. Castiel stills and takes a deep breath. “About what?”

“Friday night. The weekend. Today. I don’t know.”

“Get back to me when you figure it out.”

“'Kay, look, I’m sorry about Friday night.” Dean’s words give Castiel pause. He turns to face Dean and softens a little under the genuine sincerity in those wide green eyes. “I know it wasn’t right—”

“Understatement.”

“—and I’m normally not like that.”

“But you did it for my sake, right? Because a sub can’t possibly know what’s good for himself.” The words slip out with more venom than Castiel expected. Dean’s eyes harden, muscles shifting as his jaw clenches, but he says nothing. “You had no right. The law’s changed. You don’t get to do that anymore.”

“I get it—”

“No, Dean. You don’t,” Castiel hisses and his simmering rage boils over. “You didn’t ask! Didn’t think about the consequences. How was I supposed to protect you when I couldn’t even remember my name?”

“Would you have agreed?” Dean’s eyes are wild as his face twists in anger. “Consequences? You were so on edge all day I was afraid you’d shoot me if I breathed too loud!”

Castiel opens his mouth, but the words telling Dean to go fuck himself on the tip of his tongue cut off when his phone rings. He glares at Dean—the gleam in Dean’s eyes as murderous as Castiel feels—before yanking his phone from his back pocket and jabbing the green button. “Novak.”

“Wow, if voices could kill.” Zar’s voice cuts through Castiel’s angry haze.

“Did you find him?”

“Negative. Bloke hasn’t been to work yesterday or today.”

“Shit—”

“I have uniforms running me an address,” Zar says. “I’ll head there next and keep you posted.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Castiel hangs up, and although there’s a small sliver of hope that Crowley’s home sick or taking some personal time, Castiel knows in his gut Zar’s walking into another crime scene. He glances at Dean and shakes his head.

Dean slumps back onto the couch, pulls off his glasses, and runs both hands down his face then up and through his hair. “Goddamnit.”

***

Zar sends Castiel photos of the crime scene. Every last detail of Crowley’s West Vancouver mansion is captured on digital film, and Crowley’s untimely demise is immortalized in zeros and ones in the VPD database. Crowley’s death was just as violent as the previous ones, with his arms and legs tied to his gigantic four poster bed and every orifice stuffed full of balled-up American dollar bills. A folded koi fish was balanced precariously on the tip of his nose.

Castiel’s thankful the medical exam results concluded Crowley had died of blunt force trauma to the head. The alternative is too nauseating even for him. He doesn’t show Dean the gruesome photos, doesn’t want to add to the already mounting stress of being in the middle of a serial case that’s rapidly going south.

They haven’t said a word since this morning’s outburst, not that there’s anything left to be said. It felt good letting all that bottled up anger rush through him, to give voice to something Castiel’s been afraid to his whole life. He knows it’s not fair pinning every slight from every Dominant on Dean, but in that moment, he didn’t care.

He looks over at Dean now, seated on the couch with his binder open on his lap, his red marker dangles from his lips, and numerous loose sheets scatter over the couch and the living room table. Dean was right, Castiel was in no condition to look after anyone when he couldn’t even muster up the energy to eat toast. Despite the violating nature of the circumstance, Dean took no liberties with him even though they both know Castiel would have agreed to anything when he was that far under.

Castiel remembers it all with shocking clarity. Getting Dean that drink was his undoing, but there was nothing forceful as the events unfolded. It was natural, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle falling in place when Castiel dropped to his knees.

Dean took care of him, anticipated his needs better than anyone, even Zar, and read Castiel like an open book. He filled in all the blanks without prompting, needed no instructions, no play-by-play of how the scene should go, and no breaking out of character or coming back up because the stand-in dom didn’t know how to go off script.

It was liberating and electrifying. He doesn’t remember the last time he walked out of a scene this rejuvenated and grounded. It’s almost too bad but Castiel can never let himself do that again.

He steals another glance over the top of the laptop screen when Dean stands up, swallowing a lump before directing his gaze back to his slide of crime scene photos. There’s a murderer on the loose; he needs to focus on finding that connection. He knows it’s there. He just needs to find it. But the killer is either following some obscure personal ritual or so deranged no sane person can understand the logic behind all these kills.

Castiel stares at the screen, but he’s acutely aware of Dean heading into the kitchen, opening the fridge, then walking back and stopping behind him. He hands over a chilled can of Coke and leans over Castiel’s shoulder just as Castiel hits next on the slide show of victims.

“Wait, go back one.” Dean points at the screen.

Castiel taps the back key and frowns at the picture of Steven Doyle, his bulging eyes rolled back, his swollen tongue hanging past his lips, and an ornate leather collar cinched around his neck, pinching the skin into creases.

“I’ve seen that collar.” Dean jabs the screen with his finger, and Castiel throws a sideway glance at him. If he breaks the screen, Castiel’s billing _Cruisin’_ _Classics_ for damages.

“It’s certainly different.” Castiel studies the collar, notes the individual stitches around the edge of the thick, gleaming leather and the immaculate lines etched together to form a gorgeous pattern of delicate florals and vines. It is custom-made for sure.

“Bela. Bela was wearing this months ago.” Dean pokes the screen a couple more times.

“Who’s Bela?”

“My secretary.”

“You have a personal assistant _and_ a secretary?”

“What, you never seen _The Devil Wears_ _Prada_?”

“What’s that got to do with—”

“Never mind. Anyway. I bet my left testicle I’ve seen Bela wearing this.”

“No thanks.” Castiel wrinkles his nose at Dean. “Last name?”

“Talbot.”

Castiel grabs his phone and sends a text to Zar.

_BG check on a Bela Talbot._

“She and I sorta had a thing,” Dean says, and the start of a faint blush peeks from the collar of his shirt. “Dunno if that’s, uh, pertinent info or not.”

“What?” Castiel snaps his gaze on Dean. “And you only tell me this now?”

“Didn’t think it mattered.” Dean shrugs and pops the tab on his Coke. “Was just a fling. She wanted a collar. I didn’t.”

“And she still works for you?”

“Good help’s hard to find. She’s feisty, gets shit done. And I pay her well.” Dean takes a swig and points at Castiel’s untouched can. “Need help opening that?”

“Forget the Coke, Dean,” Castiel says and grabs for his phone. “She has access, means, and motive.”

“Don’t see her as the killer type.”

“There’s no such thing as a ‘killer type.’” Castiel dials Zar and waits impatiently while it rings.

“Bloody hell, Cassie, I just got your text,” Zar grouses as soon as he picks up. “Can’t a guy sit in the loo and enjoy a game of Candy Crush in peace?”

“Zar, I need you to pick up Talbot first thing in the morning.”

“Who is she? Want me to book her now?”

“Nothing solid, just a hunch.” Castiel glares at Dean. “She’s Dean’s secretary—”

“He has a personal assistant _and_ a secretary?”

“—and they had a thing. I’ll catch you up over email.”

“All right.” A toilet flushes in the background. “If there’s nothing else, I’d like to wash my hands.”

“You do that.”

“Wait—” A tap turns on. “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

There’s a pause, too long for it to be a coincidence. “It’s been a while.”

“I’ve been…meditating. And working out. And the paperwork is pretty mindless.” Castiel’s words stumble into each other and he slaps a hand to his forehead.

Another pause. “Uh huh. Just take care of yourself.”

“Yes. I just want to finish this so we can all go home.” He glances at Dean. “Anyway, get some rest. Call me when you have Talbot.”

“Will do.”

The line goes dead, and Castiel stares at his phone for a second before tucking it into his pocket. Zar’s no fool. He knows something’s up; he’s just polite enough not to say anything. However, he didn’t make homicide on his good looks and British charm alone, and Castiel will be answering some very difficult and uncomfortable questions once this is all over.

Dean sits down next to him and hands Castiel his Coke, the tab pulled back. “Your partner’s pretty sharp, huh.”

“You heard.”

“Every word.” Dean smirks and takes another long drink. “Not like you were trying to be discreet.”

“Touché.” Castiel shrugs, takes a sip, and cool bubbles burn down his throat.

Dean’s shoulder grazes Castiel’s as they sit side by side and drink their pop. The sun dips below the horizon, bathes the room in a splash of vibrant orange, and for the first time today the silence is easy between them. Castiel relaxes into the soft cushion as he finishes his drink.

“I really am sorry.” Dean breaks the silence, and Castiel’s drawn to the sincerity in Dean’s voice. “I screwed up. I just wanted to help.”

“I know.” Castiel licks his lips and sighs. Dean was trying to fix something out of his control so he got pushy. It’s no excuse, but Castiel can understand why he did it.

“Watching you suffer”—Dean swallows and turns his gaze on Castiel, shrouding him in a blanket of green—“throws me off too, y’know.”

“…I—”

“I swear, nothing you’re not comfortable with. We both need to stay grounded to solve this as quickly as possible so we can all go home.” Dean parrots Castiel’s words, and the corners of his lips pull into a faint smile.

Castiel wants to fight, to stand his ground, but he’s so tired. Is what Dean is offering any different than what Zar does for him? Just because he’s a Dominant? “Fine. But I have some rules.”  

“Of course.” A faint smile lights up Dean’s eyes, and his shoulders droop as he sinks further into the couch.

“Never put me under without permission again.” Castiel plays with the tab on his empty Coke can. “No humiliation, derogatory names—and no collaring, or anything that mimics it. Though, I don’t think that will be an issue for you.”

Something flashes behind Dean’s eyes, so fleeting Castiel’s sure he imagined it, before Dean nods.

“And, um, I’m not really into watersports or scat—”

“Oh god, none of that for me either.” Dean chuckles, and his cheeks glow with a dusting of pink.

Castiel grips the can tighter, cool metal warming from the heat of his skin. “As for sex—”

“Only if you want to,” Dean blurts, and Castiel’s not sure how he feels about that.

“Probably not, just to keep things, you know, professional.” Castiel shakes his head and suppresses a bitter chuckle. Everything they’re talking about right now is fifty shades past professional, but sex with Dean Winchester is on a whole different level, and something Castiel doesn’t dare think about. “Red, yellow, green is fine with me, if that works for you?”

“Perfect.”

Castiel is unaware of when the sun disappeared and the moon punched in for the night, but the room sits around him in hushed monochrome. Dean hasn’t moved from his spot next to Castiel, and they’re both still holding their empty pop cans like trophies. Castiel has so much work to do—files to read, paperwork to catch up on—but he’s not stressed about anything right now, not when he’s so relaxed. In this moment, there are no problems too big, no cases too difficult, and even his daily struggles with his career and his orientation seem minuscule.

It feels good to have no battles to fight, to lay down his arms and let someone else take control.

A hollow gurgle breaks through Castiel’s bubble of self-indulgence. He glances at Dean, and the Dominant smiles sheepishly while holding his stomach.

“Hungry?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ll order dinner. What do you feel like?” Castiel reaches for the phone on the end table.

“Pancakes. And Scrambled eggs and bacon and fruit,” Dean says, and his eyes glow like a kid on Christmas morning. “Oh and hash browns. Definitely hash browns. The shredded crispy kind.”

Castiel orders breakfast for dinner, along with orange juice and coffee. When the knock at the door echoes throughout the enormous suite, Castiel’s hungry enough to eat a horse. He gets the door, signs a generous tip on the tab, and his mouth waters as the aroma of bacon and pancakes and butter permeates the air.

Dean’s on his feet as soon as the door closes, and Castiel ushers him into a chair at the dining table. It isn’t until after he’s done setting the table and plating their food that Castiel realizes he’d served a Dominant without prompting. It wasn’t done out of spite like the first time he set the table for Dean; it felt right, natural, and the simple act of servitude tugs at him until his vision goes fuzzy around the edges.

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says and drapes his napkin across his lap, not touching the food until Castiel’s taken a seat next to him.

“You’re welcome.” Castiel shivers and tries to swallow the thickness lodged in his throat.

His voice sounds muffled as if he’s talking into a pillow, and when he slides into his chair, the soft, leather-covered cushion is uncomfortable beneath him. Castiel is aware he’s drawn to Dean, a gravitational pull he’s chalked up to the unmet physical needs that were deteriorating way before this case. He’s heard of subs who can slide into subspace with the snap of a finger, but Castiel’s never experienced it, and frankly, he’s never wanted to. It’s too much like giving up control, and control is the one thing keeping him apart from those Submissives happily spending their whole lives under a Dominant’s thumb.  

Yet, he’s slipping, and Castiel’s torn between wanting to safe word and wanting to be taken out of his head for a little while. The clarity has been nice, and it’s been much easier focusing when he’s not itching like a heroin addict.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice drifts across him like a summer breeze and he shivers again. “Cas, do you want to, right now?”

He doesn’t, but he does. He really, really does. “Please.” Castiel closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and even the smell of bacon can’t derail his need to kneel.

“C’mere,” Dean coaxes, and a gentle hand lands on Castiel’s arm, pulling him from his chair and onto a cushion by Dean’s feet. When did Dean lay down the cushion? How does Dean even know? The questions flitter through Castiel’s mind, but they’re gone like smoke in a windstorm when Dean’s hand lands on the back of Castiel’s neck.

The clatter of silverware on china is music to Castiel’s ears, and when the first bite of pancake drenched in syrup brushes his lips, Castiel sways forward with a moan. He opens his mouth and frowns when his lips close around metal. Dean’s feeding him with a fork. He doesn’t want the fork. He wants—

The next bite—a small piece of bacon—is held by slender fingers, and Castiel chokes back a sob as his tongue flicks out to pull those digits into his mouth. The bacon is salty and savoury, but the flavour is muted as Castiel wraps his tongue around Dean’s fingers, pulls them deeper inside, and laps up as much skin as he can reach _._ Hidden beneath the taste of butter and syrup and smoke is a hint of salt and soap and a flavour that’s all _Dean_.

“It’s a real damn shame we have to be so professional.” Dean pulls his fingers from Castiel’s mouth and runs his thumb along the plump, bottom lip. The words filter through, but Castiel’s focused on Dean’s fingertips, contemplating the callouses on the pads. Castiel can’t work out why, doesn’t care right now when Dean’s fingers are at his lips with bits of eggs and fruit and pancakes, always careful nothing’s too hot, or the bites too big.

“You’re doing so well, Cas,” Dean coos, and his voice wraps around Castiel, shields him from the world.

He preens and kneels a little straighter when Dean whispers sweet encouragement and praise. He’s sinking fast, but there’s still a tiny part of him that’s aware, that’s sober enough to know what Dean’s saying doesn’t make him special. Castiel doesn’t care if they’re just words every Dominant whispers to bring their Submissives under faster, he soaks it all up like a sponge and indulges in the moment, anyway.   


	6. Chapter 6

Castiel’s phone rings as he sits up on the floor of the deck, his t-shirt plastered to his torso.

There’s static, and then the sound of rustling fabric. Zar’s probably got Castiel in his pocket since this isn’t exactly kosher. It’s against protocol, and breaking more rules than Castiel cares to admit, but he’s not getting secondhand information, not even from Zar.

He tucks the phone against his ear and starts his last set of squats, the burn of repetitive exercise taking the edge off his frayed nerves.

“Miss Talbot.” Zar’s voice sounds far away, a little muffled, but Castiel can make out the words if he sits still and quiets his breathing. “Thanks for coming in on such short notice.”

Talbot is their first major lead, and if Castiel’s gut feeling is correct, she might even be _the_ person they’ve been looking for. Castiel’s heart hammers against his ribcage at the thought: no more gruesome deaths, no more being cooped up in a hotel room (even one as fancy as this), and no more Dean.

No more Dean. Castiel sits into the bottom of his squat and blames the ache in his chest on physical exertion. He’s thankful for the voices interrupting his train of thought.

“Not like I had much choice.” A woman’s voice, rich and full, drifts through. Her English accent mirrors Zar’s. Does Dean have a thing for accents? _Focus._ “What’s this about?”

“We were hoping you could answer a few questions,” Zar says. “How would you categorize your relationship with Dean Winchester?”

“I’m his personal secretary.” A scrape of metal on concrete.

“What were your whereabouts last Sunday between nine and eleven pm?”

“Home. Watched a movie then went to bed.”

“Can anyone attest to that?”

“No, I live alone.”   

There’s a whisper of what Castiel guesses is paper sliding across the interrogation table. “Do you recognize this man?”

A pause, and Castiel switches the phone to his other ear and wipes a hand across his sweaty brows. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“Do you?” Zar counters, his tone light. “You’re not under arrest. We’re just trying to rule out any possible suspects close to Mr. Winchester.”

Another pause.

“Steven Doyle. I know of him.”

“How do you know him?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

Castiel rolls his eyes and grits his teeth.

“Why not?”

“Client confidentiality.”

“Mr. Doyle is dead.” The sound of another piece of paper—a photograph perhaps—slides across the table. “More people are being murdered. I don’t know what kind of client he was, but I’d really rather not need to get a warrant.”

“Oh my god.” There’s a tremor in her voice. Castiel curses under his breath, annoyed he’s not in the room to watch for signs of genuine distress.

“Miss Talbot, a trusted source told us you wore this exact collar. Even a Neutral like myself can tell this isn’t a run-of-the-mill strip of leather. This is custom made, so I’ll ask again. How do you know Mr. Doyle?”

“Look. If I tell you, do you promise you won’t tell Dea-Mr. Winchester? I could lose my job.”

_People are dying and she’s worried about her job?_

“This is a murder investigation, Miss Talbot. I would prefer to keep things casual, but I will need you to answer the question.”

A long scrape of metal, followed by the sharp click of heels striking the floor. “Christ. Fine. I’m a paid contracting sub for…Dominants.”

_God, of course this kind of thing exists._

“You’re an escort?”

“God, no. Do I look the type?” Castiel can almost hear the eye-roll. “We contract with Dominants for a…fee. Doyle was a client. A real piece of work.”

“We?”

“I belong to a club that facilitates the exchange.”

_There’s a club?_

“What club?”

“Club Eden. God, I’m breaking so many rules right now.”

“How long have you been doing this side job?”

“A few months.” Silence. “Okay, almost a year. Doyle was my first client. He collared me, and I wore it because it was pretty and unique. Turns out he’d used that collar on multiple subs before me. An incredibly dodgy fellow, so I broke the contract and cut him loose.”

“Do you recognize these people?”

“No. I’ve never seen them before.”

The voices fade as Zar asks a few more routine questions. Castiel sits down on the deck and drops his forehead into a waiting hand. If all the victims belong to this club, it will be the connection they so desperately need. Getting a warrant for the membership list will be a breeze, and with the list of contracting Submissives, it’ll narrow down their suspect pool.   

“Will that be all?”

“Yes. Thank you. We’ll be in touch.”

Castiel waits until he hears the door open and close before letting out a long sigh. It’s another few seconds before Zar fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Cassie, are you there?”

“Yes. I heard everything.”

“She seems more worried about losing her job than being found guilty of murder.”

“Or she’s just a superb actress. We need something more solid. She’s the best lead we’ve got right now.”

“I’m going to look into this Club Eden. I’ll keep you posted. Oh, and Luc’s off the case. They busted the distribution ring.”

Castiel closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and huffs out a sigh that leaves him feeling lighter. “Thank god. You know anything about the drug?”

“Not too sure. Some suppressant for a sub’s urges? Why?”

“Just wanted to make sure it wasn’t a coincidence.”

“I’ll do some digging,” Zar says. “Y’know, I’m doing all the leg work here. When this is over, you owe me a pint.”

“I’ll buy you two.” Castiel smiles and shakes his head.

“You sound good.”

“I feel good.”

There’s a pause long enough Castiel thought Zar had hung up. “Take care, Cassie.”

“You too.”

***

Castiel rarely indulges in fancy drinks like lattes and cappuccinos, but ever since Dean insisted the hotel staff bring in an espresso press with a steam wand, he’s been hooked. He pulls the metal pitcher back with care and watches the milk roil in gentle waves. Bubbles converge and condense into a bed of silky foam, and when the thermometer beeps, Castiel turns off the steam wand and wipes it with a damp cloth.

He presses fresh grounds into the porta filter, packs it nice and tight, before slotting it into the machine and pushing the brew button. The machine gurgles, pulls water from the reservoir, and two tiny caramel colored streams pour into a waiting mug. When the streams slow to drips, Castiel scoops the foam on top, watches the edges turn golden brown as creamy bubbles sink into darkness, and the aroma of rich espresso weaves through the buttery sweetness of milk.

With mug in hand, Castiel steps out on the deck and looks down at the docks below. It’s a little past eight in the morning, still early on a Saturday for there to be much activity. Boats sway to the gentle caress of the morning waves, and the sun is a golden crown atop the horizon. Castiel takes a sip, rolls the bitter sweet flavour around with his tongue, and swallows with a moan. As much as he hates to admit it, he could get used to a life of waking up next to the ocean with a cappuccino in hand every day.

Things have been more mellow since he and Dean made the arrangement. For a couple hours every night this past week, Dean’s been taking Castiel under. They did nothing too intimate, just Castiel kneeling by Dean’s feet while they watched TV or Castiel drawing Dean a bath after Dean’s hand-fed him dinner.

Some of the dynamic of their new found relationship has bled into their day to day lives, such as Castiel making Dean’s coffee (whole milk latte, extra hot, extra foam) and ordering their meals, but for the most part they are equals, and true to his word, Dean has been the epitome of a respectful Dominant. Never pushing beyond Castiel’s limits, never testing the boundaries, and never taking advantage.   

A tiny part of Castiel wishes he would.

Castiel takes a gulp of his coffee and blames the heat along his skin on the morning sun. There’s no denying his attraction to Dean. What began as a distant appreciation of Dean’s wide shoulders and broad chest and muscular thighs became something a lot more intimate the longer Castiel and Dean shared a living space. Dean’s got the loud bravado of a Dominant, and his confidence borders arrogance, but there’s another side of him Castiel could never have read about in a magazine.

Dean’s hardworking, perhaps the most hardworking person Castiel’s ever met. He doesn’t cut corners, pores over every page of that enormous binder every single day, and when something’s not up to his standards, he’s not afraid to get on the phone and demand perfection. He’s tenacious and intense and there’s a ruthless beauty to it that takes Castiel’s breath away.

And when Dean turns all that intensity on him, when the weight of ancient forests hidden in the green of Dean’s eyes drapes over Castiel’s shoulders, dropping to his knees becomes the single most _natural_ thing in the world. Castiel had never gone under with a Dominant before Dean; the last one who tried was…Castiel shakes his head and drains his mug, lets the bitter coffee wash away the acrid memories.

Being with Dean has been phenomenal. Going under has never been this effortless, and the couple hours a night has made tremendous improvements in his mental capacity. The last time he was this at peace, he was a child whose orientation only mattered in name.

It’s terrifying, but this flavour of fear tastes good, fires his blood, and stirs up desires that leave him _wanting._

Castiel sighs, breath mingling with the salt in the morning air, and steps through the sliding glass doors into the living room. He opens his laptop, pulls out the thick stack of Club Eden members Zar dropped off yesterday, and continues to cross reference each name to the victims. When Castiel asked about an electronic copy, Zar gave him an apologetic smile.

“The bastards at Club Eden wouldn’t give up the list. When I came back with a warrant, they claimed this was the only copy.”

So far, Castiel’s matched five. It’s promising, so he tries not to despair every time he flips to the next page. If Zar gets stuck doing all the running around, the least Castiel can do is the grunt work. Besides, it’s not like he’s got anything better to do.

Castiel’s mind wanders, and every time he glances up, the sight of the cushion tucked innocently in the corner of the couch reminds him of his place by Dean’s feet, of Dean’s fingers exploring his mouth, of sweet syrup and smoky saltiness and cinnamon and apples.    

The whisper of a door opening cuts through Castiel’s thoughts, and he twists in his seat to find Dean shuffling into the living room, hair sticking up in all directions and robe open to reveal golden skin and a trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the elastic of his underwear. Castiel swallows, his mouth bone dry as if Dean can hear his private thoughts, and mutters “good morning” as he hurries into the kitchen and pulls milk from the fridge.

He doesn’t dare look at Dean as he busies himself with setting up the espresso machine. The mindless motions of preparing the latte barely quells the swell of need in his chest and between his legs, and when he places the mug in front of Dean, Dean squeezes his shoulder and murmurs in a voice thick with sleep, “Good boy.”

Castiel freezes, nerves firing so fast he’s overwhelmed with the need to surrender. He studies Dean, watches as Dean brings the mug to his lips, and Castiel can’t help but wonder what it would feel like to kiss that perfect mouth, to have Dean’s tongue press past his lips. To taste Dean in a way he’s never dared to, and probably never will.

“Hey, you all right?” Dean’s voice is distant.

He wants to tell Dean he’s fine, that he’s just distracted, but what comes out is a sigh that ends in a moan. Castiel takes a deep breath and swallows. He needs more than kneeling by Dean’s feet and being petted, needs more than Dean’s fingers in his mouth, needs so much more than everything they’ve done until this point. There’s a void in him that needs to be filled, an itch on the inside demanding to be scratched.

What he needs he can’t ask of Dean, can’t ask of anyone except Zar. “I…I need to be away for a few hours.”

Dean puts down his mug and turns to Castiel, green eyes narrowing as his jaw shifts. “Let me?”

“No,” Castiel replies too quickly and forces himself to take a few more deep, calming breaths before continuing, “No. This…we need to keep things professional.”

Silence stretches between them as Dean stares at him, green eyes intense, and Castiel’s breath hitches when Dean’s brows furrow. Dean looks away, and Castiel doesn’t like the lines of displeasure etched in the corners of those vibrant green eyes. He wants to smooth them away, wants Dean’s warm smile pulling him under, but he can’t do that, doesn’t trust himself to not cross the line he himself drew in the sand.

“Okay.” Dean scrubs a hand down his face and looks out the window, and the lack of eye contact is a physical blow. “How do we do this?”

“I—” Castiel clears his throat. “I’ll call an officer over. They’ll take my place until I—until I come back.”

“How long’ll you be?” There’s something in Dean’s voice that grates on Castiel and irritation flares despite the knot his gut.

“However long it takes,” he bites back, voice too sharp. “I’ll be back before nightfall.”

Dean glares—lips pressed in a thin line—and pushes off his chair, robe fluttering as he goes back to his room, his coffee forgotten on the dinner table. Castiel pulls out his phone and calls the only number he’s got on speed dial.

“Cassie,” Zar answers, voice thick with sleep. Castiel grimaces. It’s probably the first morning Zar’s had to sleep in all week.

“Hey, Zar, I—” Castiel starts, swallows, and squeezes his eyes shut with a shudder. He’s never had problems asking Zar for a session involving sex, but the words stick in his throat, and each syllable is like prying apart cement. “I need you.”

There’s a pause, fabric rustling, and the sound of fumbling before Zar’s voice floats through the speaker. “What’s wrong?”

“I just—I need to see you. Right now.”

Perhaps it’s the urgency in his voice, or his inability to form a coherent sentence, but Zar doesn’t ask any questions, just catches Castiel like he always does. “I’ll come get you.”

“No. I’ll bus. You’re not far.”

“Who’s watching Winchester?”

“Gonna call Mills as soon as I get off the phone with you.”

“Give her a kiss for me,” Zar snickers, and Castiel can’t help the twitch in the corners of his lips. When Castiel hangs up, he dials the only other person he trusts apart from his partner. Officer Mills shows up half an hour later in civvies, with a coffee in one hand and a package of Oreos tucked under her arm.

“Thanks for coming over on such short notice, Jody,” Castiel says as he steps back from the door.

“Gosh, Castiel”—Jody steps into the foyer and scans the suite, and her eyes widen when she spots the view through the floor-to-ceiling windows—“living the good life, I see.”

“As if.” Castiel turns away and swallows another sigh. He’s become quite melodramatic lately. They walk through the living room, and Castiel points out the kitchen and the office area and the short hall that leads to his room before knocking on the master bedroom door. No answer. He’s not surprised. “Dean, I know you can hear me. Officer Mills is here until I get back.”

“A bit of a princess, this one?” Jody takes a sip of her Starbucks and narrows her eyes at Castiel. There are too many people narrowing their eyes at him lately. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Take your time. The kids are with their dad this weekend. I’m free as a bird.”

“Thanks, I owe you one.”

“Buy me a drink when all this is over and we’ll call it even,” Jody calls over her shoulder and makes herself at home as she flops onto the couch. She grabs the remote off the coffee table and flicks on the TV, then stuffs a cookie in her mouth.

Sunlight paints the hotel lobby in a splash of gold when Castiel steps off the elevator. He pushes through the front door, fills his lungs with cool morning air, and the taste of bitter sea salt bursts on his tongue. The smell of the ocean has never failed to lift his spirits, but his heart is heavy as he walks the two blocks up the street to the bus stop.

He ignores the nagging voice in the back of his head, shuts it out with a stubbornness that’s crumbling around the edges. The bus isn’t coming for another ten minutes, and Castiel curses every minute he’s forced to wait until he can pull away from this gravity yanking him back toward the hotel. Toward Dean.

Everything about it should be wrong, yet nothing’s felt more _right_ than the thought of surrendering to Dean, letting Dean use his body as he pleases, and giving Dean the strings to control his mind. Castiel wants to be so much more than an instrument to satisfy Dean’s biological urge as a Dominant, and with each minute blowing past him with dizzying speed, this want solidifies until it becomes a singular truth.  

He can’t do this with Zar. Not when his body and mind belong to someone else. Even if that someone else only sees him as a means to an end.

With trembling fingers, Castiel calls Zar. The call goes through on the first ring.

“You can’t be here yet.”

“No. Zar…” Castiel holds the phone with both hands and shuts his eyes.

“You’re not coming, are you?” A pause. “You and Winchester—”

“I know I’m asking a lot of you. Always have. But I need you to come over.”

“Cassie—”

“Please, Zar, no questions right now. But I’ll answer anything you want later?”

“Fine. Be there in half an hour.”

Castiel resists the urge to run as he makes his way back to the hotel, and with every step carrying him closer to Dean, the _thud_ _thud thud_ in his ears increases a little until the only thing he hears is the pounding of his own heart. He doesn’t remember the elevator ride up to the penthouse, doesn’t remember swiping his key against the lock, nor does he notice the look on Jody’s face when he bursts into the suite and pounds on Dean’s door until Dean opens it with an irritated “what?”

“Dean—” Castiel forgets what he wanted to say, mind goes blank at the sight of Dean’s dishevelled hair and half open robe.

“Cas? What—” Dean blinks, eyes wide as Castiel swallows his words with a hungry lick of tongue.

Behind them, Jody gasps, but Castiel doesn’t care as he pushes Dean into the bedroom and shuts the door behind him. Dean stumbles back, feet shuffling as he catches his balance before reaching out and grasping Castiel’s shoulders, giving him a gentle push. “Wow, Cas. What the hell?”

Castiel stares into Dean’s eyes, sees himself reflected in the rapidly expanding pit of dark desire there, and drops to his knees with a jarring thud. He looks up, swallows the lump in his throat, and rests his hands on his thighs, palms facing down. “I want this.”

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them the unadulterated want in the thinning green halos sends a jolt down Castiel’s spine. “What about keeping things professional?” His voice is soft and hoarse around the edges.

“Want to do this,” Castiel says as he shuffles closer and leans his heated cheek against Dean’s thigh. “With you.”

Dean threads his fingers through Castiel’s hair, nails scratch along his scalp in calming strokes. “Me too. You’ve no idea how much I’ve wanted this.”

Castiel sits back on his heels and spreads his knees further. His jeans stretch taut across his lap, push down against his growing erection like a cage. He leans into Dean’s fingers, head moving in tandem as Dean pets and strokes his hair until there’s not a single thread of doubt left in his mind.

Going under with Dean— _for_ Dean—is always easy, but something’s different this time. Castiel’s loose, every bone and every muscle going lax until his whole body is soft and malleable, and instead of the usual heaviness descending upon him from above, Castiel’s soaring.

He stares up at Dean through lidded eyes, vision fuzzy around the edges, and a bubble of warmth engulfs him and fills the empty ache in his chest. It’s a feeling he didn’t know he was missing, didn’t know he so desperately wanted until it’s no longer picking at his soul.

Dean cups his cheek, thumb sweeping back and forth like he’s stroking something precious. Castiel melts beneath all that tenderness and closes his eyes. He trusts Dean will take care of him, will anticipate his needs and only give him what he can take.

Castiel trusts _Dean_ , beyond the physical, beyond their biology, and that is a terrifying thought. But Castiel isn’t afraid, not when the world settles around him in a bubble of perfection.       

“What do you want?” Dean asks softly, and his voice is the only thing Castiel hones in on.

“Want you, Dean.”

“What else?”

“Anything,” Castiel says, and when Dean slips two fingers beneath his chin and tilts his head up to meet Dean’s eyes, Castiel adds, “And perhaps a spanking. Yes. I’d like that very much.” Castiel’s a little breathless, a little light headed, then Dean’s thumb is brushing against his bottom lip, and Castiel moans as his tongue flick out to steal a taste.

“Tsk, did I say you can do that?” Dean pulls his hand away and taps two fingers against Castiel’s cheek.  

Castiel shivers, and the room blurs into a mosaic of shapes and colours. Dean turns to the dresser, picks up the slim, black box sitting on the top, flips open the lid—the little black card with the white kitten flutters to the floor next to Castiel’s knees—and pulls out a black leather paddle no longer than Castiel’s forearm.

Dean turns to Castiel and asks, “How about this?” A slow smile curls the corners of Dean’s lips as he slaps the paddle against his palm. The snap of leather against skin reverberates, bounces off the walls. Castiel swallows and nods, not trusting his own voice.

“Take off your shirt and jeans,” Dean says and sits down on the edge of his bed.

Castiel rolls onto the balls of his feet and stands up, hands moving without further prompting, fingers swift as they grasp the collar of his shirt to pull the soft fabric over his head. He pops the button on his jeans, the scrape of the zipper loud like rolling thunder, and hooks his thumbs under the waistband of his boxer briefs and pants.

“I said shirt and jeans only,” Dean chastises.

Castiel blinks before pulling his hands away from his underwear and pushing his jeans down his hips. He steps out of the pool of denim, yanks off his socks, and Dean smirks as he eyes Castiel’s bare feet.

Dean pats his knee. “C’mere.”   

Castiel’s never been bent over someone’s knee, allowed no one access to this level of vulnerability, but his feet move on their own, toes curling in plush carpet as he swallows the distance between them until he’s standing beside the bed. He eyes Dean’s bare thighs, spread wide like an invitation, and takes a shuddering breath before lowering himself.

“Wow. Didn’t know you had ink.” Heat radiates from Dean’s fingertips as they trace along the intricate feathers of Castiel’s tattoo, starting from between Castiel’s shoulder blades, across the breadth of his shoulder, and down his left tricep where the tip of the wing rests on shifting muscle. “Tell me about it later?”

Castiel nods and hangs on to Dean with both hands. Dean shifts his legs beneath Castiel, spreads his knees a little wider until one is wedged between the crease of Castiel’s hips. Castiel burns with embarrassment as his cock stirs and twitches against Dean’s leg, a hardness he’s sure Dean can’t miss, and tries to shift his hips back.

A hand lands on the small of his back, palm even hotter than Castiel’s burning skin. “Hold still. No talking without permission unless you need to safeword.”

Castiel nods.

“You know what they are? You may speak.”

Castiel nods again, more eagerly. “Red to stop. Yellow if I need to slow down. Green is go ahead.”

“Good boy. Mine are the same,” Dean coos, and one large hand massages the globe of Castiel’s cotton-clad ass. “Now, hush.”

The room fades away. Castiel—chin tucked against the heat of Dean’s muscular thigh—bites the insides of his cheeks and strains to stem any noise. Dean’s leg shifts beneath him when the first swing of the paddle lands on Castiel’s ass. He jumps, more from shock than pain, and settles as quickly as he can. Hold still. No talking.

The paddle lands lower the second time, and Dean smooths over the muted sting with gentle fingers. The paddle peels back, and the next hit is hard enough Castiel cries out before jamming his fist into his mouth. Dean makes an unimpressed noise in the back of his throat, but he doesn’t give Castiel any grief otherwise.  

Each blow lands with calculated precision, but there’s no pattern, some higher and soft while others are lower and hard enough to sting. Dean’s hand is all over him, strokes up and down his back, threads through his hair, then back along his shoulders and the dip of his spine. Castiel closes his eyes and bites into his fist, drifts between layers of consciousness, but he’s stuck there, unable to move beyond it into untethered bliss.

Castiel frowns and grits his teeth, but there’s a lack of conviction behind the grind of bone against bone. He’s floating and sinking, under but not submerged in the mindless state of subspace. Something’s holding him back, a nagging buzz in the back of his head rapidly turning into a scream that holds him stationary. Something’s missing.

He needs the bite of the leather, needs Dean’s cool fingers against his hot, throbbing skin. “P-please…”

“Hm?” The paddle freezes on the downswing, rests on the swell of Castiel’s ass. “What did I say about talking?”

Castiel swallows but pushes on. “Need to feel—I don’t—please, Dean.” He wiggles his hips, one hand slides down and pushes on the elastic of his boxer briefs. No more hiding, no more holding back. No more lying to himself. He wants Dean, wants to hand every inch of himself over until there’s nothing left.

Dean catches his hand and strong fingers soothe the tremor from Castiel’s. “Cas. Castiel. I—” A moment passes, fleeting yet endless. “Yellow. Cas. Yellow.”

Castiel freezes, eyes snapping open so fast he’s dizzy. Yellow. Dean’s safewording. He’s screwed up, pushed too hard, and now he’s scared Dean off. He turns and looks up into intense green eyes, and something Castiel can’t comprehend swirls in the lust-blown pupils. “I’m sorry—I won’t—oh god—”

“Are you sure?” Dean whispers, and the ring of uncertainty cuts into Castiel sharper than any knife. “I need—” Dean breaks off and scrubs a hand down his face. “I need you to be sure. There’s no going back from this.”

The words sink in, slow like molasses, their meaning cutting through the fog until Castiel’s reeling. Dean’s not backing out. Dean wants this. Wants it enough to take a step back because the last time he bulldozed ahead, he violated Castiel’s person and trust. Castiel blinks until the soft edges of his vision comes into razor sharp focus, pulls himself together so he’s breathing above water again, and slips from Dean’s legs to kneel between the vee of Dean’s thighs.

“I’m sure, Dean.” Castiel reaches up and cups Dean’s cheeks in both hands, and he notices for the first time the tiny little clump of freckles on Dean’s left temple. “I’ve never been more sure than right now. This is what I want. I know what I’m asking for.”

Dean curses, low and filthy with a throaty chuckle. “Goddammit, Cas.” And his mouth is on Castiel’s, lips bruising and tongue demanding as it sweeps past the seam of Castiel’s mouth. Dean tastes like peppermint and coffee and absolute dominance as his tongue laps into Castiel’s mouth, one hand gripping the back of Castiel’s neck as the other threads around a fistful of hair and yanks Castiel’s head back.

It’s impossible to keep up with Dean’s onslaught of teeth and lips and tongue, and Castiel finds himself tossed about in the hurricane of Dean’s unchecked passion. Dean pushes Castiel back—lips locking the kiss in place—until Castiel’s sitting on his ass, his legs spread wide as Dean slots himself there.

“Jesus,” Dean pants into his mouth, rears up on his knees, and drags Castiel’s head back as he breaks the kiss. “Taste so good—”

“So, green?” Castiel bites back a moan, elbows catching his weight as he falls back when Dean’s lips latch onto his throat.

“Yeah. Green. So fucking green,” Dean murmurs against Castiel’s skin, teeth nipping and dragging as he kisses down Castiel’s neck, tongue a gentle contrast to the sharp sting as he licks and laps at every teeth mark. Dean’s mouth closes over a nipple, fingers roll the other in time with the flick of his tongue and bite of his teeth. Castiel gasps, lungs fighting to draw breath as he tumbles through the sky to crash into the ocean of sensory overload.       

Castiel falls back onto the floor, the fibres of the carpet rough on his hypersensitive skin. He spreads his legs wider, wraps them around Dean to pull him as close as the confines of his underwear allows. “Dean, please—” He reaches for Dean’s robe, pushes soft, fluffy cotton as far down as he can, and roams the broad planes of Dean’s back with greedy fingers. He wants to feel all that supple skin, spread the fire beneath Dean’s skin until they’re both consumed by it.

Perhaps it’s the way his voice wavers or the plea quivering around the edge of his words. Dean pulls back long enough to shrug out of his robe and throws the garment somewhere behind him before diving back in, lips trailing down Castiel’s chest, over the hills and valleys of Castiel’s abs, and stopping at the jut of his left hip. He looks up, and Castiel can’t help but stare down the plane of his own body at the enchanting glow of Dean’s eyes.

They gaze at each other, sitting in the gap between now and the future, and time stops marching for a hot beat until Dean smiles. There’re too many teeth, too much blinding white, and before Castiel can catch his breath, Dean flips him onto his stomach. One large hand pushes into the back of Castiel’s neck, holds his face firmly into the carpet, and Dean’s other hand slips beneath him and yanks his hips off the floor.

Castiel grunts and scrambles his knees under himself. Just when he thinks he’s finally getting a grasp on what the hell is going on, Dean pulls at the waistband of his underwear, sliding the stretchy material over the round of his ass and pushing it down as far as Castiel’s spread knees allow.

“Gonna paddle you ’til you beg me to stop,” Dean leans over—naked chest presses hotly into Castiel’s back—and whispers into Castiel’s ear, “then I’m gonna spank you some more. See if you’ll come from my paddle on your greedy hole.”

The first crack of the paddle against his bare ass doesn’t register until the shock of the blow wears off and pain spreads like fire. Dean holds him down, strong fingers dig into Castiel’s neck so hard he’s sure there will be bruises, and brings the paddle down with well-aimed swings until one blow bleeds into the next, receding pain paves way for the next bite of leather.  

The pain is soft around the edges, and Castiel doesn’t flinch when the paddle lands on tender flesh—his body stopped fighting it sometime ago—just moans into the carpet as his hips cant back for more. He’s slipping beneath the surface of reality, sinking into a hole so deep he can’t see his own fingers inches from his face. The paddle is a continuous beacon, a strobe of light he can follow as he loses himself in fiery sensation.

A sharp crack snaps him out, just for a moment, and the point of agony is pinned by the paddle pushing firmly against his hole. Castiel spasms, his stomach clenches, and he chokes out a broken sob when the paddle lands in the same spot again, no less harsh than the last time.

“Thought I lost you for a sec.” Dean’s voice floats above him. “Colour?”

Castiel blinks, and when he tries to answer, there’s a fist wedged between his teeth. He pulls his hand from his mouth, sees the little white dents in his skin, and feels the wet rub of fibres against his cheek. He’s been crying. When did he—

“Cas?” The hand around Castiel’s neck loosens. “Castiel, baby, what’s your colour?”

“G-green,” he croaks and his voice is muffled, far away. He wants to go back to that place where his body ceases to exist, and he’s floating in a current of sensation tethered on the end of a leash attached to Dean’s presence.

The paddle is back, leather warm against his lower back and ass and thighs, and Dean’s hand is cool against his burning skin. This time Castiel feels the burn of his tears as they roll from the corners of his eyes, tastes the bitterness as they seep between the seam of his lips. His fist is by his mouth, ready to staunch the flow of sobs, when Dean’s hand covers the taut skin of his abused hand.

“Let it out.” Dean’s voice is soft, but it’s a command nonetheless, and Castiel is all too happy to comply when the paddle snaps against his hole. The sob is jagged, his voice cracking, and a decade’s worth of tears breaks through the dam.  

“Good boy,” Dean murmurs, runs a soothing hand up and down Castiel’s sweaty flank, and brings the paddle down on the sweet spot just below the left cheek. Castiel howls, eyes screwed shut with so much force he’s sure he’s going blind.

Pressure builds low in his gut, has been building in infinitesimal notches since the paddle first kissed his skin. It’s demanding now, and with each caress of leather, it become harder to ignore. Castiel focuses on Dean’s hand on his hip, on the rough scrape of carpet against his cheek, on anything but the building need to tip over an edge he hasn’t earned. But Dean’s hitting that spot over and over, and each blow is a jolt straight to his dick. He’s leaking, carpet a mess between his knees, but Castiel doesn’t dare dwell on that thought, doesn’t dare spare a nanosecond to his cock lest it triggers his orgasm without permission.

Dean hasn’t said he couldn’t come, but Dean hasn’t said he could either.

“Wish y'could see this. Your ass, Jesus,” Dean says. “Your cock, so fucking gorgeous.” The paddle falls to the carpet between Castiel’s knees. Two large hands cover the throbbing skin of Castiel’s ass and pull the cheeks further apart, and a finger presses against the rim of Castiel’s hole. “Wanna see you come. Just like this.”

And it’s all the permission Castiel needs as his body tenses and the room fades into a blinding flash of white. He shoves his fist between his teeth, shouts into his knuckles as his orgasm zaps through him like electricity. The room, the hotel, the case, it all ceases to exist. All that matters is Dean’s hands on him, his finger breeching Castiel’s body like a shared secret, and the sensations coursing through him are beyond consciousness. Come drips from his chest and abs, his cock twitches and spasms until it hangs spent between his legs, tip leaking a puddle onto the carpet.

Castiel sags forward, every bone turned to putty. His eyes flutter shut, lids heavier than lead, but Dean’s still holding onto him, and when Castiel finally put the pieces of his mind back together, there’s a constricting warmth around his oversensitive cock, stroking mercilessly.

“Come back to me,” Dean says, his voice tight as if something’s choking him.

His hips stutter, legs shaking so hard Castiel’s not sure how they’re still holding his weight. Dean strokes his softening cock, milks every last drop of come and smears it around the head and shaft. Castiel shudders and tries to pull away, but Dean’s got him by the balls and it’s too damn much and he can’t—

“It’s okay, baby, I got you.” Dean rolls Castiel’s testicles between his slick fingers, voice as gentle as his grip is firm. “I need you.”

Castiel blinks, and soft edges of his vision recede just a touch. He opens his mouth, but his voice comes out a choked whimper.

“Don’t need you to talk or think. Just need you.” Dean pulls Castiel up onto his knees, then gathers Castiel into his arms until Castiel’s tucked into the hollow of Dean’s body. He sags into the embrace, his ass tingling hotly when he settles into Dean’s lap. “Gorgeous, baby, so good for me.”

Dean’s arms are solid around Castiel; idle fingers trace mindless little patterns on Castiel’s skin. His lips are soft and warm as they mosey across the back of Castiel’s neck and shoulders, his tongue a teasing wet flick that tickles. Castiel basks in the attention, and every cell of his body sways to the vibrations of Dean’s voice.

“God, Cas. You don’t even know what you do to me,” Dean murmurs against the hollow behind his ear, pulls back and nips his earlobe. “Been doing to me.”

Castiel moans, head lolls to the side, and Dean doesn’t miss a beat as he latches onto Castiel’s exposed throat and sucks. He can feel the bruise blossom across his skin, doesn’t care as Dean moves on to plant another and another down the slope of his shoulder.

“Want to mark you up. Mine. All mine.” Dean eases Castiel off his lap, pulls Castiel’s underwear off, and arranges him until Castiel’s sitting on his heels with his knees spread apart. “You’ll let me, too, won’t you?” Castiel nods and sits up a little straighter as his post orgasmic haze makes way for excited anticipation.

Dean gets up, pulls a chair from the writing desk in the corner of the massive bedroom, and places it in front of Castiel. He takes a seat, legs on either side of Castiel, and runs a hand through his hair before tracing along his jaw. “I love feeding you. Love how you take my fingers like this”—Dean drags his thumb across Castiel’s bottom lip, pulls it down before slipping his index finger into Castiel’s mouth—“and then you do that thing with your tongue. Fuck, Cas, baby—”

Castiel sighs as a second finger pushes between his lips, and his tongue slips between the digits, laps up the faint saltiness of Dean’s skin and the musk of his own release. Dean inhales sharply, and when Castiel looks up, he’s smothered by the look in Dean’s eyes.

“You look so good.” Dean pulls his fingers from Castiel’s lips, then pushes them back in a little deeper. Jerky little thrusts that mimic the way Dean’s tugging on his own cock with his other hand. “Sometimes I get off after, and all I can think about is your lips wrapped around my dick—” Dean’s breath hitches when Castiel rolls his tongue, sucks the fingers impossibly deep and nips.

He nips them again, swallows around them in greedy gulps punctuated by soft moans. He wants Dean’s cock, wants to taste the manifestation of the raw want in Dean’s wide eyes. Dean seems to want the same thing, but not before he’s satisfied with taking Castiel apart. He drags a finger across the tip of his cock, gathers the pearl of pre-come there, and smears it across Castiel’s lips.

It’s so obscenely filthy, but Castiel’s tongue pushes past Dean’s fingers and laps it all up anyway, gags in the process because Dean’s fingertips are tickling the back of his throat.

“So eager for my cock.” Dean chuckles, and Castiel’s cheeks grow warm.

He is eager for it, desperate to show Dean the only way he’s allowed to. Castiel tips forward and hollows his cheeks, his eyes locked on Dean’s like magnets as he moves his head back and forth. A string of curses, almost too soft for Castiel to hear, and Dean’s fingers slip from his lips with a slick swipe before Dean’s pulling Castiel’s head toward him.

Dean feeds the tip of his cock to him—all hot and swollen and velvet smooth—and Castiel forgets for a moment how to breathe. Inch by thick inch, Dean’s cock floods his mouth, a flavour cocktail of soap and clean sweat and the distinctive and unmistakable taste that’s all Dean. Fingers card through his hair, and when Castiel swallows the head down his throat, those fingers spasm around a fistful of strands.

The pain feels good, a grounding beacon that keeps Castiel tethered lest he floats away again. Dean shuffles forward, his ass half hanging off the edge of the chair, and when his hips tilt up, his eyes flutter shut for a moment as his tongue flicks out to paint his lips in an glistening swipe. “Jesus, Cas—I can’t—not going to last—” His hips snap forward, driving his cock so far down Castiel’s throat tears spring to his eyes.

Castiel screws his eyes shut, nails dig into the palms of his hands, and forces his throat to relax. It’s not much help—he’d underestimated just how thick Dean is—but with each slide of the shaft that forces his throat wide open, he slips under just a little more. The pain eases, turns into a dull ache that fuels his descent into subspace with alarming speed. If Dean keeps this up, Castiel wouldn’t care if Dean choked him to death with his dick, and that should scare him, but it doesn’t.   

The room sits silent around them, the blanket of quiet broken by the wet slide of Dean’s cock and his breathy little moans. Dean sets a brutal pace, each thrust bruisingly hard as his cock rams down Castiel’s waiting throat. But it’s not long before Dean’s thighs tense, muscles shift and lock, and the fingers in Castiel’s hair yank him close, shoves his nose into the coarse hairs at the base of Dean’s cock.

“F-fuck—babe—” Dean chokes, pulls his cock from Castiel’s lips with a loud pop and strokes it with blistering speed.

The first rope hits Castiel’s cheek, and he blinks his eyes shut before more hot come splashes across his nose, lips, eyes, and forehead. A string lands in his hair, the weight of it pulls him so far down Castiel’s not sure he’ll ever come back to reality again. The wet stroke of Dean’s fingers slows to a halt, and Castiel cracks open one eye as he leans forward and takes the head of Dean’s softening dick in his mouth. He sucks with care, pushes the tip of his tongue against the slit to gather the small pool of Dean’s release there.

It tastes good—no, it tastes amazing, and he’s earned every last drop. Castiel glances up, drinks in the look of shock on Dean’s face, and smiles as he cleans Dean’s cock with eager licks. The world rights itself, like Castiel’s finally found his place kneeling between Dean Winchester’s legs, his come drying on Castiel’s face. He licks and laps and kisses along the soft shaft, and when he reaches the juncture of Dean’s legs, gentle fingers ease him back to stare into brilliant green eyes.

“God. Cas—amazing,” Dean coos, still a little breathless, and pulls Castiel in for a bone crushing hug.

 

 

Dean helps Castiel to the bed, lays him on his stomach, and traces down Castiel’s shoulders with his lips. Feather-light kisses dot along the dip of his spine and round the heated skin of his ass and thighs. Gentle fingers glide up and down Castiel’s flank for a few soothing strokes, then Dean disappears. Castiel shifts, but he’s too blissed out, and his head is heavier than lead as he tries to peek at Dean.

Something cool spreads against his ass, and Castiel’s hiss peters out into a high pitched moan when Dean’s large hands massage the cream into his abused flesh. Dean continues to smear cream into Castiel’s skin until the stinging turns into a dull throb.

Bittersweet chocolate melts on his tongue, and Castiel doesn’t stop to wonder why Dean keeps treats in his bathroom as Dean feeds him a second piece before helping him into the tub. The bath is a little too warm against his chilled skin, and Dean’s washing him with a scratchy wash cloth; it sets Castiel’s hypersensitive senses into overdrive. The sheets are cool, though, and when he closes his eyes and burrows, Dean’s body presses up against his back, a solid cocoon of warmth and reassurance.

A door shuts in the distance. There are muffled voices, one deep and smooth, the other rich and feminine. Castiel should investigate, but sleep pulls at him and wraps around him like a whispered promise.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Everything is soft and warm.

Castiel takes a deep breath, his body unfurls and his chest expands until his lungs are full to burst. He holds himself on the apex of the inhale and wiggles his fingers and toes as his senses sharpen. The mattress is firm, and the sheets are feather light as they rub against his skin, each shift a silken reminder he’s naked. Castiel rolls onto his back, throws a hand over his forehead, and cracks open an eye. The ceiling comes into focus, and rows of tiny pot lights line the edges next to the crown moulding.

He’s not sure how long he’s slept, but the sun is shining through the cracks between the curtains as dust motes swirl in an aimless dance bathed in warm sunbeams. There’s a weightlessness about him, a sense of serenity and carefreeness he hasn’t felt since the days of his childhood, when he used to wake up to the smell of pancakes and butter. His mom always made the most amazing pancakes. He really should call home more often.

There’s a shallow dip in the pillow next to him, and when Castiel’s eyes fall shut, he can almost feel the weight of Dean’s arm on his hip, hand warm against his skin, chest solid against his back. The last time Castiel woke up—eyes hooded and body heavy with sleep—shafts of moonlight illuminated the room, and Dean’s breath was warm against the back of his neck.

Speaking of Dean, where is he?

Castiel sits up, sheets falling from his chest to sit creased in his lap, and his nakedness doesn’t feel out of place. He’s in Dean’s space, even if it’s a temporary one, and the feeling that he belongs here, vulnerable as the day he was born, sends a shiver down his spine. It’s all so alien, yet he’s too relaxed to be afraid.

Dean’s voice drifts through the door, and Castiel gets out of bed and slips into a robe when another voice answers. Castiel freezes, arm stuck midway through the fluffy sleeve, and strains to hear. The voice comes through again, tugs loose a thread in his memories, and Castiel releases the breath he’s holding. It’s only Zar.

He ties the sash around his waist and reaches for the door knob, a morning greeting on the tip of his tongue as he cracks the door open. Dean’s hushed voice—tight with something Castiel can’t quite place—comes into razor sharp focus. “—can’t take care of him forever.”

“Doing just fine so far.”

“You’ll never have him like I can.” The sound of the steam wand splutters to life.

“Submissive or not, he’s still been my partner for ten years,” Zar says, and Castiel frowns at the intensity of his voice. “I’ve had him in more ways than you ever will.”

“Are you in—”

“I’d stop talking right now if I were you, Winchester.”

“Pretty sure I give the orders.”

“Your dom voodoo won’t work on me. You’re just another assignment; when this is over I suggest you walk away.”

“Can’t do that.”

“You hurt him, and I’ll—”

“What? Arrest m—”

Castiel shuts the door with trembling fingers, turns to face the room, and drinks it all in with stone cold clarity. Dean’s laptop is on the desk, work binder open next to it, and his clothes from yesterday are in a pile on the floor. Castiel inhales and the scent of Dean’s aftershave fills his senses. Dean’s presence is all around him, and what was a bubble of comfort just a moment ago is now a suffocating shroud of _Dean_ squeezing him from all sides.

_You’re just another assignment._

Dean is his assignment, his charge, and if Castiel was stronger, he’d never have let himself sink this low. He’s always prided himself on his ability to do his job well, but how much of that is him, and how much is Zar holding him up and covering his ass?

And here he is, covering for Castiel again when Castiel couldn’t do his job because he had _needs._

Castiel curses and throws off his robe, his fingers trembling as he rummages around on the floor for his clothes. He needs to pull himself together, solve the damn case, and get as far away from Dean Winchester as possible. A dull ache settles in the pit of his stomach, but Castiel ignores it, shoves the dread into the cracks of his mind. He’s lived this long without a Dominant, one night won’t change that.

He struggles into his underwear, and is pulling on his shirt, head fighting the hole of the collar when the door creaks open. Dean’s carrying a cup of cappuccino, a bottle of water tucked under his arm, but his smile fades when he steps through the door.

“Cas?”

Castiel swallows the lump in his throat and yanks the t-shirt down before grabbing his jeans. He looks from the mug to the bottle of water to Dean’s face and the crease of concern between his brows, and something inside him shatters into a million pieces.

He had one job, and he’s fucked it up. Dean’s staring at him, but Castiel can’t return the gaze, can’t handle the look of confusion reflected in the depth of those green eyes. Words dry up on the tip of his tongue, and it’s hard to breathe as the walls rush forward and threaten to crush him. Castiel pushes past Dean and out of the bedroom—

—and straight into Zar’s smokey blue stare. There’s a flash of pain there, so quickly masked Castiel can almost convince himself he’d imagined it.

“Cassie—” Zar gets up from the couch. “Are you all right?”

“Good. I mean fine. Thanks for covering—” He’s rambling; he needs to stop talking but the words won’t listen. “I’m okay. Really. You’ve got things to do. Places to be. If you need to—”

“Christ, Castiel, take a breath.” Zar squeezes his shoulders, but the heat of those large hands burns through Castiel’s t-shirt. He doesn’t know how to face Zar right now. Doesn’t know how to face any of this. “I can stay—”

“No!” Zar staying, holding him and talking to him in calming murmurs until the ringing in his ears goes away is tempting, but he doesn’t deserve the comfort, doesn’t deserve to be cherished by someone like Zar. “No,” he repeats, and the word cuts into him like a shard of glass. “Please, go home. Get some rest.”

Zar stares down at him, eyes hardening into blue pebbles as a mask slips into place. It’s the same one he wears when he steps into an interrogation room. He lets go of Castiel’s shoulders, picks up his jacket, and heads for the door without a backward glance. No “call me if you need anything” or “take care, Cassie.” Just a silent retreat as the front door clicks shut behind him.

“Cas.”

Castiel turns to the sound of Dean’s voice, the movement automatic like he’s drawn to the sound of dominance, and guilt punches him in the gut. Dean’s walking toward him, his brows pinched, and all Castiel wants to do is fall into his arms and hide in the warmth of his embrace.

What the hell is he thinking? It’s comfort he shouldn’t have and doesn’t deserve. The room spins around him, shapes blur into indistinguishable colours bleeding into each other. “Dean, please. I just—I can’t—” Castiel chokes back a sob, runs into his room, and slams the door as he crumples against it.

***

Castiel pushes his plate away and stares at the untouched stack of pancakes and fruit. Dean had knocked and slipped a note through the crack, and when Castiel opened the door, there was a tray on the floor and no Dean. He’s not sure how long it’s been since he locked himself in his room, but he’s grateful Dean hasn’t pushed to talk.

He looks at the folded note, eyes trace the grooves left by a ball point pen, and holds his breath as he opens it up to Dean’s neat handwriting. The words glide across the page in elegant cursive. It takes Castiel by surprise; he assumed Dean’s handwriting would be like him, arrogant and obnoxious and larger than life.

 _I don’t know what happened. Please eat something, you need the calories after last night. Talk_ _to me,_ _we can figure this out._ _—_ _D_

The words are soft like a caress on his skin. Castiel shifts in the chair and hisses when pain flares from his rear. Every ache and bruise comes into sharp focus, and Castiel shivers as he remembers Dean’s hands all over him.

The pancakes stare at him in fluffy scrutiny. Dean’s right, Castiel needs to recuperate and get his ass back to work, and the first step toward that is food. He drags the plate over and cuts into the stack, and with every bite a little more of his stomach settles and fills the pit of despair he’s been sinking into. He fucked up, but he can fix this like a grown ass adult and not hide in his room and will his problems away.

By the time he’s finished eating, the room has stopped spinning, and the ringing in his ears is a negligible whine. Castiel strips out of his clothes, steps into the en suite bathroom, and studies himself in the mirror while the shower warms up. Steam billows around him, fogs up the mirror, but Castiel can still make out the dots of bruises on either side of his neck, each one an imprint of Dean on his body and soul. His knees are raw, skin angry and red and peppered with tiny scabs. He doesn’t remember getting carpet burn, or that Dean’s room even has carpet.

Castiel steps under the hot spray, and a pang of regret hits him as water washes away traces of the previous night. It’s for the best. Castiel can’t afford this kind of attachment, and when the case closes, Dean will go back to his life of luxury and forget about the detective who can’t keep things professional. Sure, he said he’s not going anywhere, but realistically there’s nothing Castiel can offer that Dean can’t find in a better trained Submissive. Or Submissives. Dean’s a man of varied appetite...says _D/S_ _Weekly,_ anyway.

Since when has Castiel wanted a Dominant? He’s built his career without the guidance of one, despite public whispers of disapproval, and Castiel isn’t going to wilt like a delicate flower now that he’s had a taste. His life isn’t about kneeling or getting collared, it’s about catching criminals and upholding the law. It’s about public safety, and that’s much more important than—

But it felt so good, so freeing, and so _right_ that Castiel’s afraid he’s making a mistake. He touches his face, remembers the hot splash of Dean’s pleasure, and the ghost of Dean’s taste fills his mouth. It doesn’t matter. _He_ doesn’t matter. All that matters is they catch this killer, and the next one and the one after that. He’s more than the sum of his biology and he will prove that to himself, to the world, and if that means never going under again, then so be it.

Castiel shuts off the water, leaning his head against the cool tiles until his hands stop shaking. Zar’s in love with him; how did Castiel not see that sooner? It changes everything, and he needs to talk to Zar. Needs to clear the air and hopefully get his best friend and partner back. But if Zar wants a transfer, Castiel won’t fight him, can’t allow himself to take advantage of Zar anymore.

If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s Zar, and Castiel can’t give him that.

He steps out of the bathroom and wraps a towel around his waist, then wanders over to the bedroom windows that look out over the ocean. The afternoon sun plays a game of peekaboo as clouds mosey across the brilliant blue sky; the ocean is as serene as ever as it sits by the foot of the distant mountains. Mother nature’s indifference settles around Castiel, grounds him like a good spanking does, and it becomes a little easier knowing the planet will continue to spin regardless of the outcome of the talk he’s going to have with Dean.

When Castiel comes out of his room—dressed in an old t-shirt and a clean pair of jeans—Dean’s already set up in the living room, his laptop and binder both open on the couch. Dean looks up and takes off his glasses when he sees Castiel. “Feeling better?”

“Yes.” He takes a seat across from Dean. “We need to talk.”

“Look, about last night—”

“We can’t do this anymore.”

“Uh, no, you’re right. No more sex until—”

“No, not just sex. All of it.”

“What?” Dean blinks.

Castiel holds his head high even if the look on Dean’s face makes him want to curl in on himself. “I should have never agreed,” Castiel says. “It complicates things. It’s unprofessional—”

“Really? Unprofessional?”

“—and I apologize for my behaviour yesterday. For all of it.”

“This is your version of talking about it?” Dean drops his glasses onto the glass table with a clatter. “Doesn’t feel like you’re giving me a chance.”

“It’s for the best.”

“For who? You? ‘Cause it’s certainly not working for me.”

“I can’t have feelings clouding my judgement. And you already won your trophy.” His stomach twists and guilt smothers him. “You fucked the detective that’s never been with a dom.”

Dean freezes, and Castiel wishes he could take it all back, swallow the words, and just make a lame excuse about policies. Tension winds around him like a serpent, coils and tightens until he can’t think straight. Dean glares at him, eyes hard like unforgiving forests, and says, “You think that’s why I did it? Why I did any of this?”

Castiel inhales sharply and nods. In for a penny, in for a pound, right?

“Don’t fucking flatter yourself.” Dean pushes himself to his feet and storms off to his room.

***

Monday morning brings Garth, and Garth comes bearing gifts.

“I didn’t touch it, but I took loads of pictures for ya,” he says as he pulls out his phone and swipes the screen on. “I sent ‘em to Mr. Detective Milton, too.” Garth places his phone on the living room table, and Castiel and Dean both lean in to get a better look.

“Garth, no, it’s”—Dean sighs—“y’know what? Nevermind.”

Sitting on Dean’s desk is a white origami cat, just as elaborate as all the previous ones. It doesn’t look big, perhaps about the size of a deck of cards, and it’s sitting with its head tilted to the side. Dean looks up just as Castiel raises his gaze, and their eyes meet for a skipped heartbeat before Castiel looks away.   

“You know anyone with cats?” Castiel asks and forces himself to turn back and hold Dean’s gaze.

Dean hesitates, jaw clenching as he narrows his eyes. “No.”

“Allergic to cats?”

“Me?” Dean arches an eyebrow and pushes off the couch. “Like I know people outside of work.” He huffs a laugh. It barely conceals the hint of bitterness hidden underneath.

Castiel’s gaze follows Dean as he paces along the length of the rug, brows creased in obvious frustration. Is Castiel supposed to believe someone like Dean doesn’t have friends? Rich, affluent, and easy on the eyes aren’t exactly qualities people avoid, not to mention Dean’s status in the Dominant world means he probably gets a party invite every other day.

“Well, I should be going.” Garth’s voice interrupts Castiel’s train of thought. He places another enormous binder on the table and shoulders his bag, a small smile on his lips as he waves goodbye before making his way to the front door. He’s been coming and going so often Castiel doesn’t see him out anymore.

“See you tomorrow,” Castiel calls out, then freezes. Garth gave Dean a box earlier. The black card. White cat. Holy shit. “Wait, Garth!”

Garth stops dead in his tracks and glances over his shoulder, eyes wider than dinner plates. “Yes’sir?”

“The box you gave Dean last week—”

“Aw, shucks, that wasn’t from me. It was—”

“Garth!” Dean barks and the room quiets. “Shit.”

“Dean?” Castiel turns to stare at Dean, and his stomach can’t quite decide whether to flip-flop or drop through the floor. “What—who was that padd—box from?”

Dean scrubs a hand down his face and runs long fingers up through his hair. He squeezes the back of his neck, muscles of his forearm shifting with every pinch.

“ _Dean_.”

“Goddamnit, a friend—”

“Thought you didn’t have friends.”

“Fuck you, Detective Novak.” Dean glares at him. “Meg. Meg Masters. We go way back. And she doesn’t have cats.”  

“The card. It had a cat on it.”

Dean’s breath freezes on the inhale, green eyes widening as comprehension settles in. “Jesus. Madame Minou.”

“Am I missin’ somethin’?” Garth asks. Colour drains from his face, leaving him even paler.

“Madame Minou. Mistress Kitty. Meg’s a pro dominatrix and her brand’s a white cat,” Dean says with a groan.  

“It all fits,” Castiel says to no one in particular as he scrolls through the police database for Masters’ address on his laptop, his other hand already digging into his pocket. He dials Zar and has a moment of panic when Zar doesn’t pick up until the sixth ring. Fuck, he’s really fucked it up this time.

“Cassie? If it’s about the origami, I already got—”

“I need you to go check on a Meg Masters. We think she’s the next target.”

Something clatters to the floor in the background. “Got an address?”

“Sending it to you as we speak.”

“Roger that. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Be careful,” Castiel says, then adds quickly, “And I’m sorry.”

The line goes dead. Castiel stares at the blank screen for a moment before squeezing his eyes shut and snapping out of it. Another person could be dead; he needs to finish going through the list from the club and find that connection.

“Can I...go now?”

Castiel’s head snaps toward the door. Right, Garth is still here. “Yes, of course. Thanks for…everything, Garth. Please, be careful.”

Garth nods, but says nothing as he turns and slips through the front door.

“As if I don’t have enough funerals to go to,” Dean grouses and flops back onto the couch. Castiel worries at his bottom lip, watches as Dean deflates and resists the urge to get on his knees and offer Dean comfort. It’s not his place, and there’s no way Dean will want anything to do with him after yesterday.

“We’ll catch him.”

“Before or after this lunatic guts me, too?”

Anger punches through Castiel, and his filter takes a back seat. “Really? Maybe you shouldn’t be telling the whole world you’re here.”

“Meg wouldn’t betray me.”

“No, but this lunatic”—Castiel hooks his fingers on the air quotes—“is clever enough to avoid all security cameras. Not leave behind any trace evidence. Is obviously obsessed with _you_. And this Meg person knows to send a package through Garth! What part of this stay-off-the-grid thing are you not understanding?”

“It was just a couple emails!” Dean throws his arms wide and shouts; his eyes glint with a hint of madness.

“Emails that painted a target on her back!” Castiel yells back, and the muted weight of tension evaporates off his chest. Fuck being professional. “You think they won’t have access to your personal emails and social media?” Castiel’s voice gets louder with every word, but he doesn’t care, not when Dean’s crossing his arms and pouting like a petulant child.

“How—”

“The killer goes from random Dominants to your colleagues,” Castiel says, “and you handed Meg over on a silver platter by identifying that she’s a _friend._ ” Colour drains from Dean’s cheeks, and Castiel basks in a small pool of vindictiveness before guilt sits sour on his tongue. Just because he’s angry, doesn’t make it okay to pin this on anyone. It’s not Dean’s fault—it’s not anyone’s fault but the killer’s—and Castiel’s the jackass for implying otherwise.

Dean stares at him, eyes laser sharp and intense. “You’re right. I did this. Fuck—” He pushes himself to his feet and rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms, and when Dean looks up, the green of his eyes are dull, haunted.

“Dean, no. Wait—” Castiel jumps up and reaches across the space between them. His fingertips brush against the starched material of Dean’s shirt. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—it’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault.” When Dean doesn’t pull away, just looks at him with a frown, Castiel musters up the courage to walk around the living room table and give Dean’s arm a firm squeeze. “I’m just—look, Zar will find her. I might even be wrong; it’s happened before.”

The corners of Dean’s lips twitch into something akin to a faint smile. “Must’ve cost ya to admit that.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Too late for that.” Dean takes a deep breath and pulls Castiel down on the couch next to him. “Can you work out here?”

“Why?”

“Don’t wanna be alone.”

Castiel hides his shock with a cough, and nods.

It’s only been twenty minutes since he sent Zar to find Masters, but it feels like a lifetime has passed when Castiel rubs his eyes and drops his pen on the table with a soft clatter. He’s finally gone through the list of Dominants, and every victim except Ethel Wilhelm is on there. He’s not entirely surprised.

After doing some extensive research and reaching out to a few of his contacts, Club Eden turns out to be a popular joint for Dominants looking for “authentic” Submissives who won’t give them lip or make “equality” demands. It doesn’t surprise him a place like this exists, but it makes him sick to think there are subs willingly doing this for money.

He doesn’t check for Meg Masters, still holds onto this tiny thread of hope that maybe he’s wrong, or Zar finds her in time. It’s a thin thread, but one he’s not letting go until he knows for sure. Castiel sits back and glances through the list of contracting Submissives and groans. He needs to find that link, and he’s more sure than ever that the answer lies in these pages.

Castiel skips the male Submissives who’ve contracted for Steven Doyle and cross references the first female sub to the other victims’ list of contractors. Though he prefers to draw his own conclusions, there’s nothing the profilers concluded that Castiel doesn’t agree with. He’s running out of time and looking only at female subs will speed things up.

“For the millionth time, Becky, I don’t want excuses!” Dean shouts behind him. “Get this done or don’t bother coming in tomorrow.” He throws the phone across the room, and Castiel cringes as it thunks against the far wall.

“Dean—” Castiel’s phone vibrates on the table and cuts off the rest of his sentence. It’s Zar. “Please tell me you have her.”

“The ambulance just took her away.” There’s relief in Zar’s voice.

“Ambulance…wait, she’s alive?” Castiel glances up and finds Dean’s piercing green eyes pink around the edges as he comes around and sits down next to Castiel.

“Barely. The sick bastard left her hanging upside-down over the bathtub. A slow, watery death.”

“Is she—”

“When I got here, she’d already passed out. But she’s alive.”

“Thank god.”

“I’ll keep you posted.” A small pause, and Zar adds, “Well done.”

As soon as Castiel pushes the disconnect button, Dean crowds into his personal space, eyes bright with unshed tears.

“Is she okay?”

“She’s alive.” Castiel chooses his words carefully.

“Thank fucking god.” Dean drops his forehead into waiting hands, shoulders shaking. “I gotta go see her.”

“You’re not a family member. They wouldn’t let you in even if you weren’t on lockdown.” Castiel lays a hand on Dean’s shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Besides, we don’t want to draw attention to the fact she’s alive.” Dean looks about to protest when Castiel cuts him off with a head shake. “Take the day off. Go rest.”

Dean blinks at him through a sideways glance. “But—”  

“As soon as I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

Dean’s shoulders slump forward, tension sliding from the slopes as he takes a couple deep breaths and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, there’s a glimmer of something soft that catches Castiel’s breath. “Yeah. Okay.” Dean pushes off the couch and the leather squeaks.

Castiel watches Dean’s retreating silhouette and wonders for the first time just how Dean’s really holding up. Perhaps he needed Castiel’s submission as much as Castiel needed Dean’s firm hand. It doesn’t matter anymore, not after Castiel crossed that line and fucked it up for them both. He needs to solve this case as soon as possible so they can both go back to their lives, and Dean can find the release he needs through someone more qualified.

The next name on Doyle’s list is Bela Talbot, who claims she knows none of the other victims, but if Castiel’s learned anything in this line of work, it’s that everyone lies. He inhales deeply, picks up his pen, and scans the next victim’s list of contracted subs. Talbot’s name shows up at the end, and Castiel’s heart skips a beat. He grabs the next list, and the next, until he’s sifted through all nine victims, his hand shaking as he circles Talbot’s name under Crowley’s file.

She’s contracted for all of them.

Holy shit.

Castiel swallows, his mouth dry, his tongue thick, and his heart pounds an erratic beat against his ribcage. Talbot lied. She’s got no reason to lie unless she’s got something to hide. She has motive and full access to Dean’s office. The profile fits, and all the pieces except one snap into place to form a grotesque picture of a jilted Submissive. Castiel has enough to hold her and get a warrant, to rip her life apart until he finds the final piece connecting her to Wilhelm.

This is it. She has to be the one. Castiel grabs his phone and the screen lights up with an incoming text from Zar.

 _She’s stable but in a coma. Mills and_ _Hanscum_ _are with her._

Castiel sags into the couch, and the weight crushing down on him since the start of this case eases off his chest just a little. Castiel dials Zar’s number for the hundredth time that week, and can’t help but smile when he picks up on the second ring.

“I’ve got it, Zar. I figured it out,” Castiel whispers as excitement bleeds through his hushed voice.

“Come again?”

“Bela Talbot. She lied, Zar. She’s contracted for every victim through Club Eden, and she fits the profile.”

“Oh bloody hell. Of course. You’ll have to fill me in on the details,” Zar says with a huff of breath. “Forensics found a print on the cat origami. I’ll have them run it against Talbot right now. Call you right back.”

Castiel drops the phone on the couch and leans his head back. The cushion dips and drags him into a firm embrace, and the afternoon sun drifts through the window, shrouding Castiel in a blanket of warmth. His head lolls to the side, and the view of the mountains and the ocean has never looked as gorgeous as it does in that moment.

His phone buzzes next to his hip. That was quicker than Castiel expected. “Hey.”

“It’s her.” Zar huffs a short breath, and Castiel can almost imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose. “Would you like to do the honours?”

“No, you go ahead. I’ll meet you at the station.” Castiel glances at the master bedroom and sighs. “Need to wrap a few things up here.”

“All right. And Cassie?”

“Hm?”

“Fantastic work. You still owe me a pint.” Zar chuckles and hangs up.

Castiel basks in the glow of dancing sunbeams for a moment longer before pushing off the couch. His legs wobble, knees soft like putty as he makes his way to the master bedroom.

He knocks, waits, and knocks again before gripping the doorknob and giving it a twist. The door’s unlocked, and Castiel holds his breath and pushes it open just a crack. Blackout curtains shield the room from the sun, and it takes Castiel a second for his eyes to adjust. Dean rests motionless in the middle of the large bed; his soft, even breathing fills the room. Castiel crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bed and shakes Dean gently.

Dean startles awake, eyes glowing in the dim light as he bolts upright. “W-what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Masters is stable.”

Dean groans and flops back into the pillow. “Christ. Wish I could see her right now.”

“She’s…she’s in a coma,” Castiel says, and when Dean tenses up he adds quickly, “But you can go see her as soon as we check out.”

“What?” Dean sits back up, eyes searching Castiel’s face.

“Think we’ve got her.”

“Who?”

“Talbot. It all fits. And she lied about not knowing the other vics.” Castiel squeezes Dean’s arm even though the small gesture won’t be enough. Dean’s already lost so many people. Castiel can’t imagine what it’s like to find out the killer is someone close to him.

“Jesus, Bela?” Dean folds in on himself, chin resting on the apex of his knees as he wraps his arms around his legs.

The entire time they’ve been here, Dean’s been nothing but self-assured and aggressive. Even the nights they scened together, Dean was the anchor that kept Castiel grounded, the blanket that kept him safe and secure. The haunted, vulnerable look in Dean’s eyes now is just another reminder that perhaps Dean’s not as put together as he wants Castiel to think.

“We can stay the night and check out in the morning.” Castiel swallows and looks away. It should be easy to pack up his things and walk away, but Castiel’s not prepared for this finality. Once they part ways, he doesn’t plan to see Dean Winchester ever again. And Dean will forget all about him and his shortcomings, his bad temper and stubborn disposition. Life will go back to normal, another chapter closed.

Castiel wants to go home and sleep in his own bed, but he can perhaps spend one more night in his luxury hotel room, wake up one more morning watching the sun crest the horizon with the bitter sea breeze on his tongue. One more latte in a travel mug to send with Dean as he steps back into his life, a little broken but fixable with time.

“No. If it’s over, I’d rather leave now,” Dean says, voice firmer than Castiel expected. “I can be ready in thirty.”

Something drops in the pit of Castiel’s stomach, a leaden weight that threatens to pull him through the floor. Dean’s done with all this, with him, and Castiel can’t blame him. If Castiel was in Dean’s shoes, he’d want to get as far away from the case and everything associated with it too. _It’s for the best._ Castiel nods and slips off the bed, his hands balled into fists by his side.

“Sounds good.”

Dean doesn’t look at him, just stares at the rumpled sheets draped over his knees. Castiel walks out of the room on silent feet, closes the door behind him, and leans his forehead against the cool wooden surface.

It’s finally over, yet he can’t shake the despair coursing through him. He’s submitted to a Dominant. Worse, he wanted to cross every line he’s ever drawn, and did when he dropped to his knees for Dean. He has always thought he’s stronger than the demands of his physiology, like he’s somehow better than Submissives that refuse to fight their nature.

Perhaps he’s just a fool.

Dean meets him in the lobby and pays for the stay. Castiel hands Dean a note with Masters’ hospital information as the valet parks the Impala. His fingers brush against Dean’s and their eyes meet for a fleeting moment. There’s so much left unsaid, but Castiel has no words. The valet stores Dean’s suitcase in the trunk of the car as Dean slides into the driver’s seat. Green eyes find their way to him once more, and Castiel flounders in the depth there.

The Impala pulls away from the curb with a squeal of rubber, taking a piece of Castiel with her.

 


	8. Chapter 8

The first morning Castiel woke up in his own bed, the building across from his blocked the sun. The mountains are farther in the distance, and the sound of the ocean is replaced by the steady hum of morning traffic. His old coffee maker splutters and coughs, and Castiel never thought he’d miss the aroma of steamed milk.

It’s been a week since Zar booked Talbot. She’s out on bail, and it pisses Castiel off that money is worth more than lives to the justice system. At least she has to wear an ankle monitor, and she’s under house arrest.

They took turns playing good cop/bad cop and talking in circles with Talbot’s lawyer. She insisted she’s innocent, the charges are bullshit, that someone framed her, and when this is all over she’s going to “sue the lot of them to hell.” It doesn’t matter if she cooperates; Castiel has the warrant that allows him to turn her life upside down until he finds the last remaining piece to fit into a nearly complete puzzle.

They have enough evidence to put Talbot away, but Ethel Wilhelm is a missing piece that continues to bother him.

Castiel shuts his laptop with a soft click and leans his head against the chair back, hand idly chasing an itch across his forearm. He swivels, the wheels sliding forward until Castiel glimpses the clock. It’s half past nine on a Friday night and he's still at work. Things really have gone back to normal.

His phone sits silent next to the laptop, and Castiel can’t help the sour taste of guilt on his tongue. Zar hasn’t texted or called him outside of work since the day at the hotel, and Castiel’s been too chicken to make the first move. Sure, they’re professional, get the job done, and even smile at each other once in a while. Castiel still trusts Zar with his life, but he misses his best friend.

With a soft sigh, Castiel picks up the phone and hefts it in his hand before swiping the screen on and pulling up Zar’s name in the text app.

_Free tonight?_

He stares at the screen until the light dims, and when it shuts off, something twisted churns his stomach.

The phone lights up with a buzz. _It’s Friday night. Browsing Netflix and contemplating takeout. What have you got in mind?_

Maybe he should wait a few seconds before responding. Or not. Fuck it. Castiel’s thumbs fly across the on-screen keyboard and he can’t help the grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

_St. Augustine’s? I still owe you a beer._

Zar sends back a thumbs up emoji, and Castiel snorts as he slips his phone into his pocket and packs up his laptop, the itch beneath his skin forgotten.

***

St. Augustine’s—a popular craft brewery in the heart of Vancouver—is bustling with rowdy crowds, but the hostess finds Castiel a quiet corner table. The waitress drops off two menus and looks Castiel over with a slow, trailing glance and a flirty grin. Is she a Dominant? She’s looking at Castiel like she could own him, and she carries herself with that air of confidence just this side of arrogance. Or maybe she’s just a very attractive young woman, and she knows it. Or she just likes tips. Whatever it is, he needs to stop reading into every pointed glance thrown his way.

Castiel checks his phone and frowns. Underneath the time is a smaller row of text that makes his stomach clench.

 _Message from Dean Winchester_.

His thumb swipes across the notification, clears it from sight, and Castiel wishes it was that easy to swipe Dean out of his mind. He can’t look at bacon and pancakes without his face burning, and the smell of cinnamon and apples is enough to pull him under just a touch. It’s a touch he can’t afford while on the job, and Castiel has avoided the diner across the station after an uncomfortable lunch on his first day back.

The waitress comes back and leans over; ample breasts threaten to jump from the (tiny) confines of her t-shirt. “I’m April.” She loops a strand of long, strawberry-blonde hair around a slender finger and flicks out the tip of her tongue along her bottom lip. “Food or just drinks tonight?”

“Just a pale ale. Whatever’s on tap, please.” Castiel passes the menus back to April with a smile, his eyes glued to her cherry-red lips.

“Drinking alone?” She leans close, and Castiel catches a faint waft of sweet vanilla. It’s pleasant.

“No—”

“Cassie!” Zar shouts as he weaves his way through the crowded bar. “Not starting without me, are you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Castiel turns to the waitress and says, “And whatever he’s having.”

“Guinness.”

“Sure thing. Coming right up.”

Zar takes a seat across from Castiel and rubs his hands together as if to warm them despite the mild evening. The buzz of the dining room washes over them, and Castiel picks at the corner of his napkin. He had planned multiple speeches of apology on his way here, rehearsed over and over again until he can recite them in his sleep. But now Zar’s smokey blue eyes are trained on him, looking through him, and Castiel loses all ability to form words.

The beers come—the waitress says something about flagging her down if they needed anything else—and Castiel downs half the pint in a few long pulls. The beer is a cool, refreshing burn all the way down, and when Castiel comes up for air, Zar’s looking at him with amusement in his eyes.

“Nervous?”

“No. Why?”

“Darling, you forget who you’re talking to.” Zar snorts and lifts his Guinness to his lips. “You’ve been doing that since our college days.”

“Ugh. You have way too much dirt on me.” Castiel takes another swig.

“I won’t tell if you promise to never bring up first year Halloween ever again.”

“Deal.” Castiel catches a drop of condensation on his pint with the tip of a finger, worries at his lip as he studies the droplet. “I’m sorry, Zar.”

“I know. You weren’t yourself.”

“That’s no excuse.”

“It is what it is,” Zar says with the ghost of a smile. “So, won’t need me now that you have a real Dominant.”

Castiel frowns and slams back the rest of his beer before replying. “Winchester and I, we’re not together—”

“Seriously? After all that?”

“—but I can’t…we can’t anymore.”

“Oh?”

“I overheard you and Dean talking that day.”

“Oh. Bloody hell.” Zar takes a long pull. “So, you know.”

“Yeah.”

“Well. I can still help take the edge off.”

“I can’t. That’s not fair to you.”

“Let me decide that for myself.”

“Please, Zar.” Castiel picks at the napkin more urgently; pills of tissue litter the table beneath his trembling hands.

“Are you all right?”  

“Yeah…I—” Castiel swallows and digs his thumbnail into a groove on the wooden table. His phone lights up with another text from Dean.

“Going to check that?”

“No.”

“Cassie. What’s going on—”

His phone buzzes and Dean Winchester in block letters lights up the screen. Castiel jumps, knocks his empty glass across the table, and stares at his phone with a level of anxiety he never thought possible from a simple phone call. Why the hell is Dean calling? He hasn’t called since they parted ways a week ago. There are just numerous text messages every day. Messages Castiel’s too afraid to check but can’t bring himself to delete, so he hides the notifications.

The buzzing continues for another few rounds before the phone settles and the screen fades to black. Zar finishes his Guinness and orders them both a second round.

“Castiel—”

“It’s nothing. Really.” Castiel pockets his phone and twists the shredded napkin between his fingers until the whole thing falls apart. He’s been feeling the urge, chasing the itch he can never quite reach, but he has been managing with extra long runs in the morning and meditation in his car on his lunch break and burying himself under a mountain of paperwork. It’s easy to lose himself in the monotony of daily life, but when Dean Winchester comes a-knocking, every nerve ending in his body comes to life and fires at once.

“You’re not fine. Christ, Cassie, are you dropping?”

“What? God, no. I feel fine. Felt fine,” Castiel grouses. “It’s—how could I be? I haven’t scened since—”

“I read about this. Delayed subdrop. It’s a thing.”

“You _read_ about this?”

“Did Winchester not take care of you after you two—after?” There’s a hint of controlled anger hidden beneath Zar’s words.

“No. He—yes, he did.” It’s all a little fuzzy now, but Castiel remembers bittersweet chocolate and hot water and the feel of Dean’s chest pressed into his back and—“Fuck. Zar. I’m—”

Zar pulls out his wallet and drops a couple twenties on the table. He waves at the waitress coming over with their drinks and shakes his head, then turns and takes Castiel’s arm to pull him out of his seat toward the front door. Fresh air blows away the sticky film wrapped around Castiel, subdues his rising panic. How is this happening right now? Was it Dean? The call? Or was it remembering the one time when he felt comfortable in his own skin?

Gentle hands guide him forward, and Castiel vaguely registers they’re heading toward the bus stop. He didn’t drive, and it seems like Zar didn’t either. They get on the bus, and Castiel focuses on the sticky slide of the pleather seat under his fingers. It’s stuffy on the bus; the acute stench of bodies after a long day in the heat lingers in the air. Castiel hones in on that scent and tries to lose himself in it.

“Your keys,” Zar says. Are they home already?

He digs into his pocket and hands Zar his keys with a jingle, and the smell of home overwhelms him when Zar ushers him through the front door. No cinnamon and apples and maple syrup here. No fancy coffee machines and piping hot lattes. Just the scratch of his well-worn cotton sheets and the burn of Zar’s fingertips as he feeds Castiel chocolate and candied gingers.

Castiel drifts between bites of sweets and sips of water until the world stops buzzing in his ear and the waves of panic subsides. His room comes into focus, his sheets no longer strangle him, and he's aware of Zar’s fingers pausing with each piece of candy, pads soft against his bottom lip.

The ginger is hot and sweet on his tongue. It burns, coats his throat with sticky sweetness, spreads heat from his chest into his limbs until his fingers and toes tingle with warmth. Zar only brings out candied gingers when Castiel has a bad drop (rare, but it happens every once in a while), and this has got to be the worst one yet.

"Feeling better?" Zar’s finger pauses on the withdraw, then he clears his throat as he pulls his hand back like Castiel bit him.

"Y-yes. Much better."

"Have you eaten?"

"No. Came straight from the station."

"Castiel." Zar purses his lips and sighs as he reaches for his phone. "Pizza or Chinese?"

"Oh, I wouldn’t object to those crispy little wontons with the cream cheese filling."

"That's not Chinese."

"If The Red Dragon serves it, it’s Chinese."

Zar shakes his head and pulls out his phone. He orders their usual, rolling his eyes at Castiel as he tacks on an order of crispy fried wontons. The food comes sooner than he expects, and Castiel insists on getting the door and paying. He brings the food back to his room and turns on the TV as Zar spreads out sweet and sour pork, chicken lo mein, beef and broccoli, and crispy wontons on the bed.

They eat with an older episode of _Supernatural_ playing on Netflix. When Castiel pushes away his plate, just this side of too-stuffed, he looks up to find Zar staring at him. They’ve been eating Chinese and watching the hunter brothers kick ass as far back as Castiel can remember. But something’s different tonight: Zar’s usual running commentary is muted and half-hearted, and he keeps stealing glances at the clock when he thinks Castiel isn't looking.

Castiel checks the time and worries at his bottom lip. It’s past midnight. Normally, Zar would stay the night, but with everything that’s been going on…

“You don’t have to—I mean, if you need to be somewhere—” Castiel doesn’t want to be alone tonight. He’s feeling better, but the claws of anxiety and despair hover just out of sight.

“I can stay.”

“Zar—”

“I want to stay,” Zar cuts in. “Let me. Until I know you’re all right.”

Castiel pulls his bottom lip between his teeth once more, eyes darting between his half finished plate and Zar, and nods. “Okay. Another episode?”

“Absolutely.”

“I have ice cream. I can go grab the tub.”

“Splendid.” Zar smiles and pops the last wonton in his mouth.

***

Castiel doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he does remember waking up in the middle of the night to the flicker of something on TV and Zar’s warm thigh beneath his face. He’d felt safe, secure, even if a small pang of guilt slithered through him before he snuggled closer and went back to sleep.

The bed is empty now, dancing dust motes bathed in rays of sunlight his only companion. Castiel rubs his eyes and yawns and tries to shake the unease of something _not_ _quite_ _right_ lurking beneath his skin. He’s still not better, but he can ride it out. He has to.

Castiel throws on a fresh t-shirt and wanders down the short hall into the kitchen. The aroma of coffee permeates his small apartment, infiltrates his carefully crafted armour to remind him just how much he misses preparing Dean’s coffee in the morning. It was only a week, but it was a routine Castiel fell into without effort, and Dean’s off-handed sleepy praises were the wind beneath Castiel’s wings.  

“Morning, sunshine,” Zar says from the dinner table, his eyes glued to his phone and a steaming mug in his hand. “I made extra.”

“Thanks.” Castiel contemplates the coffee but decides against it. The last thing he needs now is something else messing with his brain chemistry. Instead, he pulls the leftover Chinese food from the fridge and two plates from the cabinet and divides everything up for a late breakfast.

“Are you still working on the link between Talbot and Wilhelm?”

Castiel shoves one plate into the microwave and shuts the door before answering. “Yes. Nothing so far. It’s mind boggling.”

“Well, at least you don’t have Singer breathing down your neck anymore.”

“And no more Luc.” Castiel drums his fingers along the counter and watches the number on the microwave countdown. “Speaking of which. What ever happened with his case?”

“He found a CI and busted the ring open,” Zar says. “If you ask me, he probably threatened the poor kid into it.”

“It’s his style. So what’s this drug…Mira-something?”

“MiraCure. Some mad scientist down in the States cooked it up. Supposed to suppress submissive urges.” Zar takes the offered plate and grabs two pairs of chopsticks from the drawer. “Couldn’t get funding so he distributed it as a street drug.”

“As if that actually works.” Castiel rolls his eyes, but something gives him pause. If a drug like this actually exists…

“Don’t even—” Zar shakes his head and shoves a piece of sweet and sour pork in his mouth. “All I know is once in a while someone shows up with severe side effects.”

“What side effects?”

“Beats me. Can’t be good though if even Luc was hell bent on taking this down.”

“He’s still an asshole.” Castiel scoops his chopsticks off the counter and joins Zar at the dinner table, the smell of Chinese food cutting through the smog of coffee.  

“Yes, yes. He’s an asshole, but he’s still going to find himself a nice little Submissive that’ll serve him breakfast every morning,” Zar says through a mouthful of lo mein. “If only stand-in doms got that kind of treatment. Oh, wait. I’ve been demoted from even that.” He winks at Castiel and shoves more food in his mouth.

Castiel digs an elbow into Zar’s side and takes a bite of his own food. It’s nice having his best friend and partner back, and Castiel will gladly feed Zar breakfast every day until he finds someone who deserves his love and attention, who will cook him breakfast every morning before sending him off to work.

He will miss having Zar catch him every time his needs become too overwhelming, but stand-in doms are easy to find these days, and if push comes to shove—Castiel freezes, and a piece of half-masticated broccoli hangs in limbo between his teeth.  

“What is it?” Zar asks, his own food forgotten as his brows furrow.

“Where’s my laptop?”

“Left it by the front door.”

Castiel grabs his bag and sets his laptop on the dinner table. Zar crowds up beside him and watches as Castiel pulls up Wilhelm’s emails to search for the few he thought were weird at first glance. He couldn’t quite make heads or tails of them then, but now it makes sense. It all makes sense.

“What are you looking for?”

“Wilhelm. She was a stand-in dom.”

“Shit. So all the victims were doms.”

“One way or another.” Castiel sits back in his chair and worries at his bottom lip. Wilhelm’s murder made no sense unless she was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. A victim of circumstances. But Talbot doesn’t seem the type to use stand-in doms, not when she’s got no qualms submitting to Dominants. Between her day job and her side gig, would she waste time with a Neutral?

According to Wilhelm’s emails, she accepted payment for her services. “I can’t see Talbot paying for a stand-in.”

“Me neither,” Zar says. “We can search through the records and have a chat with Miss Talbot later this afternoon.”  

“No rest for the wicked.”

“None what-so-ever.”

“I’m going to make a phone call.”

“Winchester?” Zar turns back to his food and avoids Castiel’s eyes.

“I’ll be a second, then we can head out.”

Castiel grabs his phone and dials Dean as he makes the short trip back to his room. He turns on the speaker and sets the phone down before digging out a fresh t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He can wear whatever he wants on Saturday since he’s off the clock. The phone rings four times before switching to voicemail. Castiel hangs up, then dials again.

No answer. His stomach twists into a sour knot, and Castiel sends Dean a text message.

_Call me when you get this. It’s important._

Zar’s waiting for him by the front door when Castiel reemerges from his bedroom. He slips his laptop back into his bag, grabs his coat, and follows his partner out the door. They drive to the station in silence. Castiel can’t shake the feeling that something’s horribly wrong as he pulls into his usual parking spot. He’s always trusted his gut, but he’s not sure if his mental state in the past few weeks is colouring his judgment. What if he’s still emotionally unstable from the drop? Maybe he’s making something out of nothing.

Castiel’s never experienced such acute self-doubt, and it’s both irritating and terrifying. And why hasn’t Dean called him back?

“Who’s bringing in Talbot?” Castiel asks and boots up his laptop.

“Mills already got her.” Zar drops his phone on his desk and settles into his chair. “They’re on their way.”

“What’s taking so long?”

“Talbot refused to leave until she had her lawyer on the phone.”

Castiel huffs out a long sigh and curses the Charter of Rights and Freedom, then reminds himself that it exists for a good reason. Even if he wants to burn the damn thing to the ground right now. While going over the list the first time, Castiel entered the entire thing into Excel. With everything digitized, it doesn’t take long to cross reference Talbot’s clients and her booking schedule.

“Fucking—” Castiel scrubs a hand down his face. “She was with a dom. I’ll run it down to confirm. Can you get an ETA on Mills?”

“Sure thing.” Zar picks up his phone. “Anything else?”

“Can—can you call Dean? You know, in case he’s not answering my calls.”

“Cassie—”

Castiel turns back to his desk, picks up his phone, and jabs at the number pad. He’s been ignoring Dean’s texts and then didn't pick up the call last night. Maybe Dean was trying to tell him something, call for help, and Castiel let his personal issues get in the way of his job again. Castiel calls the dom, and he confirms—after Castiel’s repeated assurance he’s not in legal trouble—that he was with Talbot the weekend Wilhelm was murdered, a weekend when Talbot was trussed up and never out of his sight.

Fear pools in his gut, and icy tendrils spread into his veins until he’s numb. Christ, they have the wrong person.

“Cassie.” Zar’s voice is soft. “Winchester’s not answering.”

Fuck. Don’t jump to conclusions. There’s still a good chance Dean’s just sleeping in or busy working. He’s always working. But the more he tries to reassure himself, the worse that fear becomes until the office fades and all that’s left are the voices in his head. How could he have been so blind? If the RCMP hadn’t come up with that stupid profile. If he hadn’t let his physical needs cloud his judgement and hinder his ability to do his job. If Dean Winchester hadn’t been so goddamn distracting—

He can make excuses until the cows come home, but Castiel knows, deep down, that the whole thing is his fault.

“Cassie—Castiel, cool your jets.” Zar’s voice cuts through the litany of nasty things running through Castiel’s head.

“I fucked up. Zar, I got the wrong person, and now Dean’s missing—”

“We don’t know that.”

“—and he’s the target and I just let him—I couldn’t keep my head straight—”

“Castiel. Detective Novak!” Zar grabs Castiel’s shoulders and shakes him. “Quit your blubbering and do your goddamn job. You can wallow in self-pity and have a nervous break down later.”

Zar’s right. Castiel can’t afford to do this right now. He’s still the lead detective on this case, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t see it through. He takes a deep breath, and the exhale carries away the blind panic. “P-put an APB on Winchester.”

Zar nods and lets go of his shoulders before turning back to his own desk. Castiel tucks his phone between his ear and shoulder, his finger hovering over the number pad when the reception officer places a small box on his desk. He glances up, then at the box, and rips open the tape.

Inside is a neatly folded paper Chevy Impala.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

“VPD,” Castiel calls out and slaps his badge against the glass.

The concierge behind the front desk scurries around with a wave and opens the door. “Can I help you?”

Castiel doesn’t stop to respond, pushes past the startled man and runs down the hall, and punches the button for the elevator. He hears Zar’s hushed voice—his tone urgent—but the words are lost to him as blood roars in his ears. The number above the elevator doors counts down at a glacial pace; the smooth glide of red digital letters winds the tightness beneath his skin.    

Zar catches up as the elevator doors slide open. Castiel steps through and punches the button for the twenty-sixth floor repeatedly, as if jabbing the smooth piece of plastic will make the elevator go any faster. They ride up in silence, and although Castiel appreciates Zar’s hand on his shoulder, it irritates him that he needs this touch to stay grounded. He’s a grown man, a detective, not a frightened child.

But he is frightened. Terrified. He doesn’t need the unanswered knock to know Dean’s not here. Zar kicks the door in and Castiel steps through with his gun raised, his heart in his throat as he walks through the foyer and into the living room. Zar’s footsteps fall with care behind him, and slowly, Castiel makes his way past the kitchen and down the dark hallway to check each room.

“Clear,” he calls out with each door toed open into an empty room, and Zar’s answering echo grows louder until they converge back into the living room. A part of Castiel sags with relief when the place comes up empty. No body means Dean could still be alive. But for how long? Castiel calls the forensics team before turning to face Zar.

“All the victims were killed on Mondays,” Zar says as if reading Castiel’s mind, his voice soft and guarded. “It’s only Saturday, we still have time.”

They wouldn’t _need_ time if they’d made the connection sooner. “Right. No sign of a struggle, and Dean’s work bag is still here”—Castiel points at the bulging black laptop bag strewn across the couch—“and no way the concierge wouldn’t notice if someone drugged him. He must have gone willingly.”  

“We’ll check the security footage.”

“Could be someone he knows.”

“Talbot should be at the station by now. Maybe she can give us some insight.”

Castiel nods and scans Dean’s apartment, wants a snapshot of it in his mind before forensics rip it apart. Dean’s been back here for a week, yet the place is immaculate. The cushions on the couches are artfully placed with the corners pointed straight up. The rug beneath the living room table has wide vacuum lines, the appliances in the kitchen sparkle, and there’s not a single mug or plate on the gleaming countertops or the dinner table.

Either Dean has a cleaning lady come in every morning (which is not impossible), or he’s been living at his office. Or staying at someone else’s place. A Submissive perhaps, someone to keep him occupied and—Christ on a cracker, Castiel, pull yourself together.

“Forensics are on their way. I’ll have Mills run a trace on Winchester’s phone.” Zar slips his phone into his pocket and jerks his head toward the door. “We should head back.”

Castiel takes a deep breath, looks around the room once more, and follows Zar out the front door.

***

When they arrive at the station, Bela Talbot and her lawyer are waiting for them in the interrogation room.

“Miss Talbot.” Castiel sits down across her.

“I’ve been here for over two hours.”

“Sorry. Something came up that needed my attention.”

“Is this your new tactic?” Talbot crosses her arms and manicured nails drum against her upper arm. “Harassment at random hours of the day until I confess to something I didn’t do?”

“Miss Talbot, I need to ask you a few questions.” Castiel checks the string of curses at the door. “As a suspect in a serial killing, it’s in your best interest to cooperate.”

“Then you could have at least been on time. Lawyers charge by the hour, you know.”

Irritation flares, and Castiel closes his eyes and counts to ten in his head. “Can you think of anyone else in Dean’s life who would want to hurt him?”

“What are you trying to say?” Talbot’s lawyer lays a hand on her arm and gives her a stern look.

“I’m saying—” Castiel takes a deep breath and huffs out a sigh.

“Is this some sort of trick?”

“My client is done answering—”

“No. No tricks.” Castiel pulls up the picture of the origami Impala on his phone and slides it across the table. “I need your help, Bela. Dean’s missing.”

Talbot straightens in her chair, blue-green eyes wide as her fingers dig into her arms, and Castiel can’t help the thought she’s still in love with Dean. “What? I thought you were guarding him?”

“When we arrested—we let him go.”

“And now he’s missing.” Talbot’s voice drops in temperature with each word, and she shakes the lawyer’s hand off her shoulder. “If you’d listened to me in the first place, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Castiel pushes a folder across the table. “I think whoever’s behind this might also be contracting with Club Eden. I’m hoping you can take a look and see if any names jump out at you.”  

“They’re most likely all fake names. I’m certainly not Candice Taylor.” Talbot picks up the list and scans it. “I don’t recognize any of them.”

“Humour me. Look closer. If not for me, do it for Dean.” Castiel twists his hands in his lap under the table and hopes his voice doesn’t betray the despair eating a hole through him. Talbot looks up at him. Her glance lingers too long, eyes perhaps see a little too much, but she doesn’t give him any lip and turns back to the list. She takes longer this time, and each second rakes across Castiel’s skin like claws.

“Oh. Oh, wait. This here”—she taps the tip of her fingernail against a name—“Gerald Fitz. Something about this name. It’s familiar somehow…”

Castiel squints at the neat row of letters. Gerald Fitz. Is there a Gerald working at _Cruisin’_ _Classics_? It’s not a particularly odd name, but he should recognize it at least from the list of staff members. Castiel’s half way through texting Zar when Talbot’s soft gasp interrupts his thoughts.

“I know who this is.” Her gaze snaps onto Castiel with a sharp flick, her eyes wild with recognition. “ _Fitzgerald_. It’s Garth.”

“Garth? Dean’s assistant Garth?”

“That’s him.”

“But he came up clean when we ran backgrounds, and he’s Neutral.”

“Well, I came up clean at first glance too, didn’t I. Though, that’s the part I don’t understand.” Talbot sits back in her chair and frowns. “The club is very strict about contracting Submissives only. No stand-ins.”

Castiel stares at the name. Something’s not adding up, but at least it’s a lead, and that’s one step closer to finding Dean. “Thanks for your help, Miss Talbot.”

“Are we finished here?” The lawyer interrupts, her voice icy and distant as she glares at Talbot then Castiel.

“Yes. You’re free to go.” Castiel stuffs the list of names back into the folder, slips his phone into his pocket, and nods once more at Talbot.

Her hand shoots across the table and grabs his wrist; the intensity in her eyes pins Castiel to his chair. “Please, find him.”

“I will.”

Castiel steps through the door as Zar walks out of the adjacent room.

“You heard?”

“Yes. Who would’ve thought.”

“May just be a coincidence.”

“You really believe that?”

Castiel grimaces as he turns down the hall toward his desk. He’s worked this job long enough to know there are no coincidences. He pulls up Garth’s information and calls the number on file. No answer. No surprise there.

It’s starting to look like a bad episode of a cheesy procedural TV show, where the lead detective finally pieces everything together way too late.

“No answer?” Zar asks.

“No. That would be too damn easy.” Castiel grabs his keys and turns to Zar. “Up for a drive?”

“Always.”

Castiel yanks his coat off the back of his chair and follows Zar to the elevator. They ride down to the garage in silence, but Castiel can’t shake the feeling that Zar is studying him. Castiel unlocks his car, slips into the driver’s side, and reverses out of his spot before Zar’s latched his seatbelt.

It isn’t until they’re driving down the freeway when Zar says, “It’s not your fault.”

It’s uncanny how he always knows what Castiel’s thinking. “I don’t see how it’s not.”

“All the evidence pointed towards a female Submissive.”

“Obviously not all. I let the profile and…I let a lot of things cloud my judgment. I should have checked him closer.” Castiel grips the steering wheel, letting his anger pass through his fingers and into the solid grip lest he loses control and kills them both. “He had full access, knew Dean’s life like his own. I even talked about the case while he was there, Zar. If—if Dean dies, it’s on me.”

“It’ll be on both of us.”

Garth lives in the shadier side of East Vancouver. Castiel pulls the car to a stop and loosens the snap on his holster before stepping out into the warm night. The house is dark, and when they make their way down the side to the basement suite, a motion sensor light blinks on and bathes everything in a splash of sickly yellow.

Castiel kicks down the door, uncaring about noise or protocol. The only thing that matters now is finding Dean, and if that means breaking down every door in Greater Vancouver, then so be it. “It’s the police!” he calls out with his gun and flashlight raised. Zar follows him in, and between the two of them, they clear the small living space with efficiency.

“No one’s home,” Castiel says and searches the wall for the light switch.

“Shocking, that—” A single naked bulb illuminates the room with harsh light. “Christ—”

Rows upon rows of origami line the floor-to-ceiling shelf on the far wall, some intricate while others are of simpler designs; all of them stare at Castiel with an eerie sense of calm. Castiel’s stomach drops, and air refuses to inflate his lungs. Zar walks closer to the shelf and leans in close. He grabs a pair of latex gloves out of his back pocket, moves the paper crafts out of the way, and pulls out a small plastic bag half full with little white pills.

“These remind you of something?” Zar’s voice cuts through Castiel’s paralysis.

He catches up to Zar and squints at the bag. “Could be the same pill we found at one of the crime scenes.”

“Only one way to find out.”

***

When they get back to the station, Luc is waiting for them in Castiel’s chair.

“You really screwed the pooch this time eh, Castiel?” Luc looks up from his phone and sneers.

“Oh, put a sock in it.”

“Detective Milton, watch your language.” Luc’s face splits into a wide smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “After all, you’re the one that called me here.”

Zar opens his mouth, but Castiel lays a hand on his arm and squeezes. “We just need to know what this is.” He pulls the evidence bag out of his pocket and hands the pills over to Luc.

“You’re surprisingly complacent,” Luc says as he takes the bag of pills and studies them. “A couple weeks with a real dom fixed you.”

Castiel grinds his teeth; the dull aching pressure holds back the angry remarks lurking just out of sight. He needs Luc’s help, and Castiel can swallow his pride if it means getting closer to cracking this case and finding Dean.

“Do you know what’s in the bag or not?” Zar asks.

“It’s MiraCure. And a lot of it. Where did you find this?”

“Garth Fitzgerald’s apartment.”

“Wait, Winchester’s scrawny assistant?”

“Yes. So this MiraCure, it curbs a sub’s urge to submit?” Castiel takes the bag from Luc and tucks it back into his pocket. The pills will eventually end up with the Drug Unit, but right now it’s still his evidence.

“Something like that. Alters brain chemistry and suppresses the need for a sub to go under.” Luc rolls his eyes and shakes his head as he crosses his arms. “Works for most subs desperate enough to try it. Once in a while it backfires, and things get messy.”

“Messy, how?”

“Different for everyone. A lot of suicides, though, which is how the drug got on our radar.”

“These side effects, are they permanent?”

“From what we gathered, sometimes it’s reversible via detox and rehab. If your guy’s been on this stuff for a while, though, who knows what damage has already been done.”

“All right, thanks, we’ll take it from here.” Castiel points at his chair and cocks an eyebrow.

“Honestly, if you ask me—”

“No-one’s asking.”

“—isn’t it easier to just kneel for a dom?” Luc stretches and spins around in the chair before hopping to his feet, his nose inches away from Castiel’s as his eyes sweep down then up. “Now that you’ve had a taste, you know I’m right.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Castiel grits, nails dig into the palms of his hands, “but I suggest you get the hell out of my face.”

Luc holds Castiel’s gaze—his eyes hard with anger and disdain—before backing away, lips stretched even wider in a Cheshire grin. “Better move fast, Castiel, gotta find your lover boy.”

***

At first glance, Garth is as boring as they come, the worst kind of murder suspect. No priors, no criminal record, not even a speeding ticket. Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose before pulling up Garth’s medical records going as far back as the system has access to.

“Jesus…” Castiel mutters through a sharp inhale. Multiple counts of minor head injuries, numerous trips to the hospital for second degree burns, and two broken bones, all before Garth turned ten. He was either a very clumsy kid, or someone had a nasty habit of hurting the toddler. Something tells Castiel it’s the latter; it always is. He shuts his eyes, takes a few deep breaths, and forces the trembling in his hands to still as his blood boils beneath his skin. Why even have a kid?

He scrolls down, notes the lack of any further injuries past ten, and arrives at the bottom of the record to the line Castiel’s looking for. Orientation: undeclared. Odd. Castiel digs further, pulls out lab results, detailed doctor’s notes, and finds what he’s looking for buried in a routine check up file. Preliminary blood test result: Submissive markers detected.

There’s no result for the confirmation physical exam. Garth was never officially tested.

Castiel reaches for his coffee—cold and gritty—and takes a gulp before doing a keyword search on Garth Fitzgerald. A few windows pop up: paperwork for the foster care system, an application to be Dean’s personal assistant, a couple articles in gossip magazines where he’s photographed standing with Dean. But the headline that catches Castiel’s attention is from fifteen years ago.

“Whatcha reading?” Zar places a fresh cup of coffee in front of Castiel.

Castiel takes the warm mug between his hands and sips. Scalding coffee burns past his lips, bitterness a refreshing welcome on his tongue and spreads warmth into his fingers and toes. “Background on Garth.”

Zar stares at him, blue eyes narrowing just a touch. “That bad?”

“Dad beat mom to death with an ashtray while he watched.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Kid was ten.” Castiel takes another sip, but the hot liquid has lost its magic.

“No wonder he went all mental.”

“According to this article, his mom called the police about domestic abuse, but they did nothing.”

Zar raises an eyebrow.

“Mom was a sub. Dad was a dom with a record.” Castiel puts down his mug, unsure if the sour taste on his tongue is just coffee or something far more rank. “Garth is a Submissive. Never got his confirmation physical. Chances are mom was too afraid of what his dad would do if he found out his son was a sub.”

“That’s such rubbish.”

“Not uncommon, though. And the asshole was kicking the shit out of Garth before he showed signs.” Castiel shrugs. “The cops did nothing when she reached out. Probably had some asshole on the phone telling her she wanted it so it’s not abuse.”

“Cassie, the law—”

“The law's bullshit and you know it,” Castiel shouts before clamping his mouth shut. There are only a handful of officers in this early, but he still earns himself a few curious frowns. “You’re telling me if a call came in right now and Luc picked up, he wouldn’t spew that same kind of horse shit?”

“I’m not making excuses,” Zar says softly, “but you’re getting worked up over something that happened fifteen years ago.”

“Whatever happened fifteen years ago is the cause of what’s happening now.” Castiel takes a deep breath. “Garth testified and put his dad away. Because something like that doesn’t screw a kid up at all.”

“I know. Look—”

“Detective Milton?” A timid voice interrupts Zar and a rookie—whose name Castiel can’t remember—walks up to them and fidgets. “Staff Sergeant Singer wants to see you?”

“Thanks, love,” Zar says with a smile. The rookie rocks forward and looks about to say something before spinning around and stumbling away. “Am I that intimidating? Anyway. Don’t do anything stupid ‘til I get back, all right?”

Castiel grunts and turns back to his laptop, still seething as he goes back to Garth’s personal records. There are no properties listed under his name, only the address he’s currently renting out of. He could have taken Dean to a hotel room, but there are no hits on either of their credit cards. If Dean had gone with him willingly, there’s no way he’d allow Garth to take him to a place shady (and run down) enough to accept cash upfront.

Where could they be? Castiel searches for property under Dean’s name. The only thing that comes up is Dean’s apartment. He looks up Garth’s parents next, and his breath freezes on the exhale when an address pops up under Garth’s mother’s name. He enters the address into Google maps and curses. It’s in the middle of nowhere, remote Surrey.

They might not even be there, and if he’s wrong it will be at least two hours wasted. But Castiel’s running out of options, and a lead is still better than nothing. He glances toward Singer’s office—the blinds are drawn and the door’s still closed—and grabs his phone and keys off his desk.

He texts Zar before stepping into the elevator. _Chasing down a lead. I’ll keep you posted._

***

The sky is a dull blue, and the world around him is shaded in cold hues of monochrome as it awaits the piercing rays of the morning sun. The car crunches to a halt in the loose gravel, and Castiel checks his gun and badge before stepping out into the crisp pre-dawn air. He shields his eyes and scans his surroundings. Nothing but fields as far as the eye can see, and the dark ever-present mountains sit stoic in the distance.

The ranch house is a lone, squat silhouette amidst the field of tall grass. Castiel rests his hand on the butt of his gun and makes his way down the winding driveway. The Impala comes into view, and time slows down as hairs prickle at the back of Castiel’s neck. He sends Zar a hasty text asking for backup, pulls his gun clear of its holster, and chambers a round. The air chills his clammy skin as Castiel circles the house.

The backdoor is boarded up with planks of wood haphazardly nailed together. Castiel comes back around to the front, holsters his gun, and pulls out his set of lock picks. For the first time in his career, Castiel’s thankful Zar talked him into getting them. The lock clicks, the sound deafening, and the front door swings open. Castiel thanks his lucky stars the hinges are greased.

He checks his left, right, then steps through the door and straight into the living room. Castiel squints into the dark and raises his gun as he takes measured steps down the dim hall. A familiar voice drifts from the back of the house, followed by the sound of rattling chains and a low grunt.

“It stops hurting after a while.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Castiel shifts his grip on his gun and, with his back close to the wall, makes his way through the house following the voices.

“You hurt me too. More than you know.”

Another grunt, this time a little more breathless, and Castiel’s breath catches as he rounds the corner into another hallway with four closed doors.

“Whatever it is, we can talk about it. Just let me go.”

“Can’t do that, Dean. I finally have you right where I want you.”

“Garth. Listen to me. You don’t have to do this.”

“No, I do! You were supposed to stop me!” A hint of desperation creeps into Garth’s voice, one Castiel’s only too familiar with.

The voices are coming from further down, but Castiel checks the first two rooms just in case. Satisfied that he’s going in the right direction, he takes each step with care, waiting until the talking starts again before planting his feet.

“I’ve always admired you. So compassionate, gentle, _so different_. And when I heard you were coming here, I knew I had to get close to you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“It was no accident I was the best candidate as your personal assistant. The others stood no chance. They don’t get it. They don’t get you like I get you.”

“Well, if you _get_ me, then you should know I enjoy inflicting pain more than receiving it.” Dean’s voice is strained.

“You know why I left you the origami?”

“Enlighten me.”

“You were supposed to—it was an accident. You gotta understand, I didn’t mean to. The pills worked. Worked for a long while, but then they stopped.” A rustle of fabric, then the sound of metal grinding against metal drifts from the last door down the hall. “And it got so bad, Dean. I couldn’t…it was killing me, and nothing helped. The urge came back, but there was no relief. Remember that one time I called in sick?”

“Y-yeah. Fuck, Garth, _please._ ” Dean gasps.

“Shh. Anyway. It got so bad I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and I couldn’t come to work like that, y’know? So I went online and found myself a stand-in. I just—just needed some relief. Needed the weight off my chest.”

Castiel’s phone buzzes, but he ignores it as he inches closer. The door’s open with a crack just wide enough to peek through. He wipes one sweaty palm down the side of his pants, then the other, and presses his face as close to the opening as he dares. A cool breeze caresses his cheek, and Castiel can just make out Garth’s slight figure framed by Dean’s wider silhouette.

Dean is strung up, his wrists bound in metal cuffs that hang on a length of chain dangling from the ceiling. Castiel squints and curses the dull pre-dawn light filtering through the windows. Dean’s stripped from the waist up—he can make out that much—and he winces each time Garth’s arm moves just the slightest.

“So she showed up. She was awful, Dean. Probably read a book and thought she could play the part.” Garth’s arm pauses, and Dean sags in his chains. “She tried, but it didn’t work. And I hurt so bad. You don’t understand. No one understands. I was so angry, I don’t even remember what happened, but the next thing I know, she was lying face down in a pool of blood. I was terrified, Dean. Terrified. You believe me right?”

“I—I believe you.”

“I didn’t know what to do, so I folded paper. Origami always calmed me, used to anyway. And then the pain went away. Pressure gone, so I wiped it all down and ran.”

Castiel’s phone buzzes again. It’s a string of texts from Zar.

_Backup is on the way._

_Why didn’t you wait for me you wanker?_

_I’m coming. Don’t fucking do anything stupid._

He pockets his phone and wipes away the beads of sweat threatening to blind him. Garth turns around, and Castiel catches the flash of light reflecting off the blade of a large knife.

“I knew I couldn’t get away with it. And I forgot the origami there. I figured, maybe if you saw it on the news, and if you pieced it together and turned me in, then at least I could go in peace.” Garth waves the knife dangerously close to Dean’s neck, and Castiel’s breath freezes in his lungs. “So I folded another scorpion, and I left it on your desk. Nothing happened. No news. But the urge was gone.”

Garth is standing too close to Dean, and no matter how Castiel plays it out in his head, he can’t see a scenario where Garth doesn’t slit Dean’s throat as soon as he busts through the door. He crouches down and scans the room as well as he can through the crack. There’s no other way in, and the only window is directly behind Dean. If Castiel wants to take Garth down through that, he’ll have to shoot through Dean.

“You know, I didn’t even care that you never saw me that way. I was okay with you taking sub after sub. You didn’t demand anything of them. No contracts. No collars. And you treat them so well. All of them.” Garth rubs the pad of his thumb against the sharp edge of the blade. “Then the urge came back. It got worse, so I looked for a traditional dom. They’re always bragging about how good they are, right? And it didn’t work. No subspace, no slipping under. Just…just so much pressure in my head. So I killed him. And I left a clue. But still nothing, and you didn’t get it. So I kept doing it, kept killing. But the cops, they kept fucking it up!” Garth yells.

“Garth—”

“Shut up! All I wanted was for you to see me, Dean! I was ready to hand my life over to you. You were supposed to stop me, make the pain go away—”

Castiel takes a deep breath, then another, until the pounding in his chest is nothing but a distant echo. If Garth keeps talking, maybe he’ll be too distracted to notice Castiel until it’s too late.

“—then _he_ shows up. Detective Gold Star, and you became just like them.”  

Castiel’s hand freezes on the smooth cool surface of the door.

“You just couldn’t resist, could you? Detective Castiel never-been-touched-by-a-dom Novak waltzes in, and you couldn’t take your eyes off him. You dropped all your subs after one meeting with the guy”— _what?—_ “and strong-armed the mayor just to get him in the same room as you. What’s so special about _him_? Why’d you get so possessive? Why’d you have to become just like _them_?”

The room is deathly silent save for Garth’s harsh breathing. Inhale. Exhale.

“I’m sorry, Garth. I didn’t know—”

“Why would you? You’re too busy drowning yourself in work because _he_ wouldn’t return your texts. Too busy worrying about _Cas_ ”—Garth spits out the name like it’s toxic—"and his mental wellbeing. I hoped if I killed people close to you that you’d try harder. But you were only worried about getting into _Cas_ ’ pants.” Garth crowds up close to Dean, and one hand traces down the thin red lines down Dean’s chest, smearing blood across tanned skin.

Garth presses the knife against Dean’s throat, and the gleaming metal catches the first ray of sunlight spilling through the window. “You’re a liar, Dean Winchester. You’re just like them. And now you can die just like them.”


	10. Chapter 10

Castiel pushes open the door and steps through with his gun pointed at Garth. “Put the knife down, Garth.”

For a skipped heartbeat everything freezes. Castiel swallows, eyes glued to the back of Garth’s head, and tries not to think about the few molecules of space between the razor sharp edge of the knife and Dean’s throat. Garth doesn’t turn around, doesn't move a muscle as he shifts his weight forward, and the knife presses a little closer.

"Garth”—Castiel takes a tentative step forward, then another—“I can’t pretend to know what you're going through, but we can fix this." His voice is soft as if speaking to a spooked animal. A step to the left, followed by another, and Castiel holds the breath trapped in his lungs. He can just make out Garth’s profile. His eye is wide with a gleam of madness, but swimming beneath that is a hint of something Castiel can’t quite put his finger on.

"Look at me, Garth." Castiel takes another step closer. "There's hope. The effects of the pills aren't permanent, we can reverse it."  

"Don’t come any closer," Garth hisses, and pushes the knife right up against Dean’s neck. Castiel stands stock still, heart threatening to burst through his rib cage. "Can’t fix this, Detective Novak. Nothing can fix this.”

“That’s not true. Detox, rehab, the whole nine yards.” Castiel swallows. “But you need to put the knife down. Let me help you.”

“You can’t help me. No one can help me. I just want to be normal!” The knife shifts, and a thin red line appears beneath the edge. “Thought I found a cure, but it’s all bullshit. I looked up to you. Both of you. But in the end you're all the same. Slaves to your biology."

Garth turns to look at Castiel, and hopelessness swims in the tears welling in his eyes. "There’s no cure. Just—”

Dean throws his head back and cracks his forehead against Garth’s temple. A choked cry drowns out the ping of metal as the knife clatters to the floor. Castiel squeezes the trigger.

Once.

Twice.

Red blossoms across Garth’s chest like unfurling roses. He blinks and crumples, and the ghost of a smile paints his lips.

Castiel dashes forward and kicks the knife across the room, uncaring where it lands as he rushes to Dean. The chain rattles, harsh metallic echoes bounce off the walls as Castiel lowers Dean’s arms and unlocks the cuffs. Razor thin cuts cover Dean’s chest, some already closed while others still ooze blood. It’s a pattern Castiel can’t make out.

He lays a hand on Dean’s back. Dean hisses and arches away from his touch. Castiel looks behind Dean, and his stomach lurches as rows upon rows of hypodermic needles in Dean’s back twinkle in the morning sun.

“What the hell…” Castiel traces the puckered skin around a needle, and his own back twinges. The needles pierce flat into Dean’s skin and spread out from his shoulder blades, down to the small of his back, then back up again to form wing tips.

The sound of sirens pierce the thick layer of silence around them and snaps Castiel out of his trance. He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over Dean’s shoulders, careful not to touch Dean’s back any more than necessary.

Castiel takes Dean’s arm and drapes it across his shoulder. “Let’s get you to a hospital.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

“What for?”

“Saving my ass. Duh.”

***

There’s something about the smell of hospitals that puts Castiel on edge. It’s too sterile, so overpowering it masks the unique scent of life and mutes the sharp tang of death until it’s all a miasma of fear and uncertainty. Castiel walks down the brightly lit hallway, the soles of his shoes squeak with each step, and his heart somersaults in his chest when a familiar voice carries down the hall.

“Thanks, doc. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Your discharge papers are at the nurses’ station. Sign them before you leave, and we’ll fax everything over to the insurance company.”

Castiel nods at the doctor as he walks out—starched white coat fluttering behind him—and steps into the room. Dean’s back is turned to him, arms raised as he slips on a t-shirt, and Castiel catches a glimpse of white gauze before the loose cotton falls in place. Last time he saw Dean, there was too much chaos, too much adrenaline, and his heart was racing a hundred kilometres an hour as he tried to make the best of a shitty situation.

This time, Castiel’s heart beats a little faster for completely different reasons.  

“Hello, Dean. How’re you feeling?”

Dean spins around, his eyes widen a fraction before recognition sinks in, and his face splits into a wide, dimply smile. “Okay. A little sore, but nothing major. I can go home whenever.”

“That was quick. They don’t need you overnight for observation?”

“Eh, it's just a flesh wound. Or wounds, but still, nothing to worry about as long as I keep the cuts clean.”

“What about—”

“Don’t need it.”

“Dean, you almost died.”

“They gave me a number to call if I need someone to talk to.” Dean sits on the edge of his hospital bed, feet dangling a few inches off the floor, and in the gap between two blinks he looks vulnerable, then the smile’s back on his face.

“…okay.” Castiel doesn’t push. He understands the need to take back control when things go to shit, and nearly dying at the hands of a serial killer is as bad as it gets. “Meg’s awake. Not sure if anyone told you.”

“Thank god.” Dean’s eyes redden. He turns to stare at the wall for a moment and clears this throat. “When can I go see her?”

“She’s at Vancouver General. Visiting hours are ten to seven tomorrow.” Castiel pulls the only chair in the room closer to the bed and takes a seat. “She ID’d Garth. It’s a wrap.”

“Thanks, Cas.”  

“I need to take a statement from you. Think you’re up for it?”

“Yeah, sure.”

Castiel flips his notepad open and pulls out a pen. A lot of officers have switched to tablets, but Castiel likes the glide of ballpoint across paper. It’s simple and honest, like real police work should be. “Okay, tell me what happened from the beginning.”

“There’s not much to tell. Saturday morning Garth asked if I could do him a favour. Kid never asks for anything, so I figured why the hell not.” Dean fidgets with a loose thread on his pillow case. “Said he needed a ride to his mom’s place. Gotta run some errands and he didn’t have a car. So I took him. Everything seemed fine, we talked about work, and he told me a little about his mom. When we got there I got out of the car to stretch my legs, and the next thing I know I’m half naked, strung up in that room and he”—Dean takes a slow breath—“he was doing the thing to my back.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Dean gives Cas a wan smile and continues. “He took breaks. Not sure if he needed them or if he was giving me time to…adjust to the pain. Kept telling me it stops hurting after a while. It didn’t.”

Castiel swallows and scribbles as quickly as he can, trying to ignore the bubbling rage coursing through him.

“At some point I think I dozed off, or passed out, whichever. He didn’t talk much, not until just before you showed up, and he was done shoving needles into my back and started carving me up.” Dean runs a hand down the front of his chest. “The rest you know.”  

Castiel nods and glances through his notes—most of it scribbled in a shorthand only he understands—before tucking the notebook back into his pocket. “Thanks, that’s all I needed.”

“What’s going to happen to Bela?”

“She’s cleared of all charges.”

“How did he…”

“Frame her? Our tech guys think he must have hacked the club’s database and added all the victims to her client list, and then planted her print at Meg’s crime scene.” Castiel glances at the large _I heart St. Paul’s_ printed on the front of Dean’s shirt. It doesn’t look like something Dean would own. “How’re you getting home?”

“Gonna call a cab.”

Sometimes, Castiel forgets Dean doesn’t actually have family here. “I’ll drive you.”

“You sure?”

“It’s not far out of my way.”

“You know where I live?”

“I’m a detective.”

Dean laughs, a full-bodied bellow that fills Castiel to the brim with joy, and he can’t help the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “All right, then, Detective Novak. I’ll go sign my discharge papers and we can be on our way.”

“I’ll pull the car around.”

By the time Castiel pulls the car to the front of the hospital, Dean is sitting on the curb—long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles—waiting for him.

“Not gonna lie,” Dean says as he hops into the car and snaps his seatbelt on. “Wasn’t sure if you were gonna pull up in a smart car or a douchemobile, since you know, you are a cop. But this?”

“What’ve you got against Mazdas?”

“…nothing.”

“She’s reliable, and good on mileage.” Castiel slams on his brakes extra hard at the red light and scowls. He’s not married to this car, but he picked her after extensive research and weighing all the pros and cons. “I like pretty things too.”

“I’d say she’s more cute than pretty.”

“You can walk home.”

“Point taken.” Dean chuckles before sinking further into his seat and turns to stare out the window.

Castiel steals a glance at Dean and snaps his gaze back on the road when green eyes meet his in the translucent reflection of the window. He can feel Dean’s pointed stare, and Garth’s words come back to haunt him syllable by syllable. Dean was worried about him, about his mental well-being, dropped all his subs after meeting him, and wanted to spend _time_ with him, even if Castiel’s still unimpressed by the way Dean went about acquiring said time.

It was too much to process when Dean’s life was in danger, so Castiel shoved the words into the dark corners of his mind. But now, when Vancouver drivers are the biggest threat to their lives, the words resurface, and they are still overwhelming and terrifying because they’re words Castiel so desperately wants to hear.    

Wide city thoroughfares become narrow one-way streets, and Dean’s condo comes into view way too soon. Castiel pulls his car to a stop and puts it into park.  

Dean glances out the window and swallows. “You should come up for coffee.”  

Castiel’s heart seizes, and warm memories of tranquil mornings chase away the cacophony of unwanted thoughts. He looks at Dean, looks out the window at the glass doors of Dean’s fancy apartment, then looks down at his own hands. _Don’t do it._ But Dean’s looking at him with those piercing green eyes, and his hand is gentle on Castiel’s knee, and before he knows what he's doing, Castiel nods and shuts off the engine.

The elevator ride up to Dean’s place is a blur of buttons and soft carpet, and when Dean opens the front door, Castiel hones in on the espresso machine sitting on the counter in the kitchen. How did he miss it the last time he was here?

“Dry cappuccino, right?” Dean kicks off his shoes and closes the door behind them.

“No, let me.” Castiel is a little light headed.

Dean hesitates, lays a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and squeezes, before nodding. “Okay. Mugs are in the cabinet above the sink.”

Castiel pulls the milk from the fridge and watches the roiling waves of foam as it steams. He pulls the espresso shots, pours the foam and milk over and watches with satisfaction as dark brown bubbles rush up the side of the mug, turning lighter and lighter in a perfect gradient. He turns and hands the mug to Dean, and a shiver runs down his spine when Dean’s fingers brush against his.

Dean takes a sip and moans. “God, Cas. You’re so good at this. Such a good boy.” The mug freezes at Dean’s lips, and panic and shock flitter across wide green eyes.

Castiel shivers, his body wanting to drag him under even as his mind wakes up screaming. He knows it was a slip up, knows Dean didn’t mean to praise him with such familiarity; it leaves a bitter taste on Castiel’s tongue. It’s too easy to lose himself with Dean, too easy to let himself be pulled under, and Castiel can’t—he just can’t.

“I-I better get going.” He pushes past Dean and jams his feet into his shoes, and the front door shuts on the echo of Dean’s voice.

***

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose and leans back in his chair. The office is quiet for a Monday, which suits Castiel just fine. He drags himself back in front of his laptop and finishes up the last of the paperwork from the Origami Killer case. It irks him that’s the name they’re going with, and Castiel has a suspicion his irritation is why Zar chose it.

Singer was pleased with how quickly Castiel closed the case, despite the oops with Bela Talbot, and only assigned him the minimum required hours with the psychologist before giving him his evaluation. It was not the first time Castiel’s had to fire his gun on the job, but Garth was definitely going to stick with him for the rest of his career, if not the rest of his life.

He checks the time on his phone and pauses at the missed call icon still sitting in his notifications. Dean had called him after he left in an angry haze and hasn’t tried contacting him since. It won’t take long for Dean to get Castiel out of his system. He’s Dean Winchester; there’s no doubt a line of eager subs ready to take Castiel’s place.

Castiel doesn’t have time to wallow in self-pity. He’s already scheduled an interview with _D/S_ _Weekly_ later this week to shed light on MiraCure. Castiel’s decided, once and for all, to be completely open with the world and other Submissives about his struggles, insecurities, his support network, and how he navigates in a world of Dominants.

Singer’s all for it, says it’s good for PR to have a Submissive represent the force, and Castiel believes Singer when he says he wants more subs to know their biology shouldn’t stop them from doing what they want. There won’t be more tragedies like Garth, not if Castiel can help it, and if that means exposing his personal life and putting himself under the spotlight for scrutiny, then so be it.

The missed call icon stares at him, and Castiel finally swipes it off the notification tray and shoves the phone into his pocket. It’s for the best. It has to be.

The phone buzzes. Castiel jumps, curses under his breath, and pulls it out again. His heart’s in his throat when he checks the screen, but it’s only Zar. “Yes.”

“You have caller ID, yes?” Zar’s voice drifts through. “Would it kill you to be nicer to me?”

“Yes.”

“Well in that case, carry on.” Castiel can hear the eye roll and grins. “Anyway, I’m going for lunch. Join me?”

They end up at the diner across the street from the station, the one that smells like apple pie and bacon, and the smell still puts him on edge. It will be a long time before he can eat apple pie again. The busty hostess seats them in a booth by the window looking over the hubbub of Mount Pleasant. Castiel slides into the pleather seat with a sticky squeal and stares out the window.

Zar flashes their waitress a blinding smile, orders them both coffee, and turns his attention back to Castiel. “All right, Cassie?”  

“Huh? Oh, I’m okay. Just a little tired.”

“Found yourself a new stand-in?”

“No. I’ve been running. And all that paperwork for firing my gun’s kept me mellow.”

“It’s not so bad to have someone take care of you.”

“Zar, please. You know I can’t afford—”

The waitress comes back with two mugs of coffee and a bowl of creamers. “Been a while, fellas. What can I get ya?”

“Turkey club for me, extra fries. Thanks, love.”

“I’ll have the cheeseburger.” Castiel smiles and hands over his unopened menu. They’ve been coming here since Castiel graduated from the academy. He waits until the waitress walks away before turning back to his partner, but Zar beats him to it.

“Yes, yes, can’t afford to lose your freedom, your agency. I know. But what if you don’t have to? This isn’t the fifties.”

“Eventually, that’s what they all want.”

“Don’t you think you’re jumping to conclusions?” Zar leans back and crosses his arms, and the corner of his lips twitch.  

“What exactly are you trying to say?” Castiel knows that look. He doesn’t trust it one bit.

“Winchester.”

“What about him?”

“He doesn’t seem the type to want you to resign your post and hand over your cheque book.”

“For now, maybe. He comes from an affluent family. Eventually, they’ll want him to tame his sub.”

“His dad’s Neutral, y’know?”

“What?”

“Mom was a dom. Seems like they were rebels even before the Equal Rights bill.” Zar winks and takes a sip of his coffee.

“How do you know this?”

“How do you not? I’m a trained investigator. I _investigated_.” Zar pulls out his phone and promptly ignores Castiel until their food arrives.

The burger is phenomenal as usual, but Castiel barely tastes it as he mulls over Zar’s words. A Dominant marrying a Neutral before the Equal Rights movement was unheard of, even considered taboo in some circles. If that’s the household Dean grew up in, maybe he wouldn’t be—no, because of his family scandal, there’s an even bigger chance he’d want a traditional Submissive. Someone who would be happy living in Dean’s shadow, kneeling by his feet at every public function. Castiel couldn’t do that, couldn’t give up everything he’s worked for his whole life, his knees simply don’t bend that way.  

Zar is uncharacteristically quiet as he takes dainty bites of his sandwich and polishes off his extra large serving of French fries. How the man stays so skinny is beyond Castiel. They pay their bills, and it isn’t until they get back to the office that Zar taps him on the shoulder.

“I have someone waiting in interrogation three,” Zar says with a wave and walks ahead of Castiel. “Can you bring him a water while I go grab my files?”

“Sure.” Castiel fetches a bottle of water from the lunch room and makes his way to interrogation three. He pushes open the door, and a pair of piercing green eyes pin him to the floor.

“Hey, Cas.”

Castiel feels a shove from behind and stumbles into the room. He spins around, but the door’s already shut and the lock clicks with a finality. _Goddamnit, Zar!_

“Cas—”

Castiel holds up a finger and fishes his phone out of his pocket. Dean pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, as if hiding a smile, and sits back in his chair.

“What the hell, Zar?” Castiel hisses into the phone.

“Well, someone’s gotta look out for you.”

“This isn’t funny. Let me out.”

“Give the bloke a chance. Talk it out, and if after using words like adults you still want nothing to do with him, give me a call and I’ll let you both out.”

“I’m going to kill you.”

“I’m quaking in my boots.” Zar’s voice mocks him as much as his words. “Cheerio.”

Zar cuts the line before Castiel can say a word. He stares at his phone and sighs.

“Look, just hear me out.” Dean gets up and walks around the table, stopping inches away from Castiel. “I was way outta line, getting Ellen—uh, Mayor Harvelle involved so you would be my bodyguard—”

“Babysitter.”

“…babysitter. Fine. I was intrigued by you, by the spread they did on you. Then you walked into my office, and I was maybe a little starstruck. You were— _are_ —striking, and I wanted to get to know you.” Dean runs slender fingers through his hair and grips the back of his neck. “I got pushy. It was stupid, and when you left, I thought I blew it. So when I found out I was getting tucked away, it was like getting a second chance, you know?”

“You could’ve just asked me out for coffee.”

“Would that have worked?” Dean cocks an eyebrow.

“No.” Castiel sighs and the corners of his lips curl.  

“Didn’t think so. But, I’m a gamblin' man. So”—Dean takes a step closer—”want to get some coffee after?”

“Dean—” Castiel stumbles back, his heart pounding as heat crawls up his neck. Suddenly the collar of his dress shirt is too tight, the room too stuffy, and Castiel can’t think as Dean assaults his senses.

“You think I’m just looking for a challenge, a good time, but you’re more than that, and I—I need time to prove that to you.” Another step, and Dean has Castiel backed into the door, trapped.

“It’s not that simple.” The room melts away until all that’s left is Dean standing in front of him, pressing in close. Castiel wants to arch off the door and _feel_.

“I’m not gonna make you quit your job, or tell you what to think. I’d rather have _you_ , Cas, not what society thinks you should be.”

“You’re a dom. You have needs, and people have expectations.” The words sound weak even to himself, but words are all he’s got right now since his body has decided it’s on board with Dean’s proposal.

“Fuck them and their expectations. This is about us, and fulfilling your needs will take care of mine.”

“Dean, please—”

The air shifts, and Castiel swallows when Dean shuffles closer. If Dean kisses him, he’ll allow it, and Castiel isn’t sure how to feel about that. But Dean doesn’t. Instead, he crowds into Castiel’s space—a hair’s breadth between their lips—then drops to his knees.

Castiel gasps, and every molecule in his body vibrates with the wrongness of it. “W-what are you doing?”

“Making a choice, Cas.” Dean looks up, and his green eyes sparkle. “I’m kneeling at your feet because I choose to, because I _want_ to. I don’t care what other people think. I’ll never tell you what to do, unless you want me to.” Dean leans down and plants a kiss on the top of Castiel’s left shoe, then the right, before sitting back on his heels.

When Castiel just stares, chapped lips parted, Dean adds. “Why do you think I never collar my subs?”

“Um—”

“I want a partner, Cas, someone who can think for themselves. Not a mindless slave.” Dean leans his forehead against Castiel’s shin. “Though I’m totally into it if you wanna play like that.”

This isn’t happening. Dean’s kneeling by his feet, _kissing_ his boots, and there’s not a shred of mockery in those eyes as they stare up through thick lashes. This is ridiculous. _Dean’s_ being ridiculous. Thank god they’re behind locked doors and no one can see this. What would the other doms think?

 _Who gives a shit what the other_ _doms_ _think?_

“But, I can’t give you—I’m not—I don’t even know—”

“Whatever you don’t know, we can learn together.”

Castiel plucks at the cuff of his shirt. He’s running out of excuses, and it’s exhausting denying this part of himself on a daily basis. Dean blinks up at him, looking way too hopeful and vulnerable for a Dominant, and Castiel’s armour cracks a little more. “If we—but I don’t want to wear a collar—”

“We don’t have to collar. I’m not asking you to contract with me. I just want us to have a chance. I wanna take care of you, get to know you, and see where this takes us.”

Castiel wants those things, too. He wants to know what it feels like to be loved and be vulnerable without fear. He wants to make Dean as happy as Dean makes him, and watching Dean on his knees, looking up at him, it feels so wrong, but it also feels _so right_. Dean wouldn’t ask him to kneel in public or wear a collar to work or give up his job and his freedom. Dean has treated him like an equal from the start, and he probably always will.

“Christ, Dean…” Castiel scrubs a trembling hand down his face, but he can’t take his eyes off the man kneeling so perfectly in front of him. They can start something new, their own culture, just the two of them. Everything is a choice, and maybe choosing to submit doesn’t mean he has to lose himself. Would it be so bad to at least give it a try?

Castiel drops next to Dean and folds into his arms. “I’d like all of that. Very much,” Castiel murmurs and inhales deeply before continuing, “but under one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Please don’t kneel again, that’s my job.”

Dean laughs, and Castiel shivers as vibrations of Dean’s joy transcends the layers of clothing between them. Gentle hands cup Castiel’s cheeks. He lifts his face until he’s staring into the brightest pair of green eyes and finds himself wrapped in a blanket of sincerity.

Dean leans in, but this time, it’s Castiel who closes the gap with a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I hope that did not disappoint! Thanks to everyone that made it to the end with me! Please, come say hi on [Tumblr](https://destimushi.tumblr.com/)!


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